My sorrows! Lying, listing, listed, sighing!
And yet somehow, they live, requiring,
denying, surrendering, demanding, confusing
soul and psyche, imprisoning heart, which
holds with hands so bone-cold, the remains
of what had been; crumbling memories.
So does mind make of the impossible, some
thing which can be borne, carried forth on
crushed shoulders, held aloft, until the place
is reached, where the burden can be put down;
the offering of suffering can be laid at the feet
of grief, settled on the altar of deep becoming.
So is the Self carved cautiously by time,
so is Life revealed in poignant form, as mine.