Sorrow leans against a lamppost &
observes from a distance.
Grief shackles neither of my wrists.
Rage-pain? Hate-stroke? Hurt?
Silly limericks, obscenely fleeting.
Sometimes, I club my shin
moving too fast to another room:
instant ache strikes a shout &
homemade charley horse.
I live with it, live. I struggle
with each foolhardy part of me
in turn; would rather
feed the dragon than the worm.
Published on September 1st, 2022
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