Let it go.
As the blood traces my recovery.
What of the wise tale of motherly love?
Paternal pacts of protection?
The abuse nothing more than corded piles of wood’s deflection.
A morning’s wood stove…a way of brandishing a ‘hello’.
Never felt sorry for self.
In those knotted woods.
No one spoke of, help.
If only a mistress
If only the plight of wrong turns on dark, gravel, back roads.
A diary of teenage dysfunctions
Foreplay for what was an 80’s norm.
The flow of the natural-born red river has not recovered me.
Alas, to separate will be all that is left to anchor the vagabond feet.