Thursday, May 19, 2022

Under the Bus, In the Garage

Blessed desolation
Crisp as palm fronds in spring,
The cricket sings
In my private box
Away from the abuse
I'm not allowed to admit to --
There is too much at stake
When they fall apart without me --
Must be sheepish only
At the woundsalt daily,
Cannot contradict
That I caused it,
It takes two to dance, after all,
The one who gives love
And the one who hates it
Are equally at fault 
For sharing the space
As if they had no choice.
To have a choice would put me,
In fact, at fault, which is the one
Thing that can't be surmised,
To know how holy and wise
Such torments will make me,
How that was part of the design
That I drew, all smiles, hand in
Glove with these monsters
And their victim cards
Distributed at birth
Like meaningless flowers.