They inhabit not their feelings nor their breast
To be with them is vile, but I digress
I’d rather live with cats and holy ghosts.
if we fail to enter our true being;
With accident and trauma felt too soon
Or. with a mother tormented and unseeing,
We linger sadly, helpless as her moon.
Is it possible to come home to ourselves
When failure marked our earliest attempts?
Will love arise spontaneously dissolve
When often forced back by our own dissent?
Will night’s darkness be more than a mere shroud
Covering with its cloak the selfish crowd?