(The joys
have been good. The pains have instructed. Life has proven as paradox.) I find a truth, threaded in behavior: We love those persons we have lost. I speak experience; that vocal
language, explored in hindsight. I couldn’t find us, etched in misery, and
desperate to let go; while people watched, partial to a story, as to admire a
child’s sufferings; for this is love, this endless toleration, while cringing
in fragments…so hell with warnings, where rashes break forth, and margarines
prove unbearable; for mother’s right, to afflict her blood, where others have
packed their bags; where blood must suffer, as to adore injustice, or perish in
shame. It’s a type of blackmail: the falling in tears; the gripping of winds;
that shallow apology—for it was never real; as time returns, fretting that
infraction, this repeated process. We love by title, afraid to follow actions,
while one capitalizes. It’s surely perfect—the pain of a child, as long as
mother smiles. (But the joys have been
good. The rains have instructed. Life has proven as paradox). This soul is
driven, a temperament without solace, a friend of jagged edges; as parted by
woes, and sanded by tears, and hewn by pressures; to practice compassion, and
teddy bear hugs, while others pursue bias. I used to panic, as to imagine such
grit, where tolerance is a lifelong expansion: but what for balance; and what for equals; and what for a loss of
excuses? I’ve reckoned a fairytale; where love is mutual, as opposed to
this feeling, where He can’t leave.
Our best behaviors—are savored for strangers—This person that must see! I used to worry—that the imperfect
becomes perfect, while a son splits asunder; for people perish, to sew us in
guilt, where merely we needed protection. It’s the shame of life—while buried
in dungeons—this grief we must carry; for others died, as damning our souls,
without as much as a, Thank you!
