What a job description, the crooning mantra,
"I must save him to save myself."
The false face of God.
The absence of a protector and provider.
The vacuum of orphan-hood.
The bitter angry tap root,
Core so rotten
hope nullified,
Sad and tormented, the cloudless sky; the waterless mist,
here for awhile before vanishing.
Shaded spectacle, deflated,
procrastinating passivity purloining promises
Worthless seeds
from a dead tree
All this anger, it's a shell of protection,
coated and fossilized
Never forgotten weights hanging off my eyes,
owed and sour gray skies.
This is resolving the unresolvable
Some stories don't find redemption until the end.
Someday
I will see it worked for good.
