There are lines to this scarcity.
Hidden obstacles filled with joyless doubt.
Now that I am in…the dead air is coming out!
A covert world we all must go thru…
and, the question remains…
‘Will I have the courage to go without you?’
The grass beaded with dew and the…aromatic earth…
does not quench my soul as it used to.
Lying and dying have become art forms.
A certain style giving unto…laughing…crying.
Courage in the blinding light of day can whisk the unthinkable webs away.
Nonetheless, the night…with its sporadic fits of sleep…
Still begs for valor’s retreat.
If she could take my pain away…she would.
But it is mine to own.
She can search the hurt…but the hunt would remain…not hers.
So often…the urge rings out…
‘What can I do to help?’
Yet, these barren wastelands are custom-made for self.
And, within the bouts of relief…this much is true…
This much is true…
When I reach over to feel a long…long ago…scar.
The distance between it and now…seems so far.
And, though, I remember the pain it bought.
I remember…most, the love it brought.
To pray for the suffering to end…
Would be participating in a childish game of pretend.
She would take my pain if she could.
Yet, there is no reason that she should.
It is mine to own…
both the bad,