Maybe this is the howling void
That I never expected
Therefore never saw
In their eyes
Never
Had protected myself from
And always fell afoul of
Thinking that they were just cold
Little lambs
In need of a hearth
A proud loving arm
An altruistic helping hand
...
Not so
...
My hearth is now foul with despair
Piles of dejected spirits lay around
And offer no hospitality
No maternal warmth
All is just eking and
Weathering
Leaky breakdowns
While baby is at school
And strained struggling subsistence
Empty water tanks
Because hot showers help
With this pain
Feeling hated
Unabated malign
Feeling that this for sure
Is all underserved
But apathy now smothers me
I must drag myself out
Of quicksand
Out of mud that has been slung
Out of a puerile dung hill
That has absolutely nothing at all
To do with good clean healthy dung.
More like grit to pearl
Grit to grit your teeth hard over
And pearl for all you are worth
All my thoughts
In their agonism
Are delirious convections of
Molten gold
And pearlescence.
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