you take with you, your lived lives,
to your final resting place.
Your veils will never be lifted.
Your secret stones not shifted.
My roots, trapped in your maze.
I came into your existence,
yet, you kept me at a distance,
with your anger and your passion.
I looked on, became frustrated.
What is love, what is hatred,
when entwined in such a fashion?
I fled from feeling dejected,
into what I had expected,
would
ultimately enable me.
Then faced with separation,
I cried for the
lost relation:
The loss of the customary.
Slowly, I grew to understand,
my pain is merely second-hand,
into
which your own blend has crept.
I feel weak to choose indifference.
I
feel weak to choose resilience.
I choose therefore, to accept.
I still want selfless acceptance.
I still want it, to have substance,
and
bind me to my origin.
This very dissatisfaction,
knows but one
course of action,
and that's to hurl me into ruin.
© 1996.
Rewritten 16 September 2020, Jacquelene Martina.
