To realize now of what torn and broken must truly refer,
Like resignation and eternal ache,
Boiled into the marrow of bones and set of face.
Not wrenching, in particular,
Or even loud and apparent,
But, at its worst, an unyielding attic of discomfort.
Lies tacit just below the skin,
Unforeseen and unshakable,
Resting on top of mind and soul.
Quietly, quietly, descending on the brightness of tomorrow,
Dimming eager spasms of the heart,
A false fist of freedom clenched tightly around that tender organ.
Plays dearly upon the past,
Relentless in its ridicule,
Diminishing and diminutive is the hope that is spared.
Stirs the cauldron of internal turmoil,
But seals the lips of spoken pain,
Leaving, unfairly, a face that can only peer upon happiness,
And feel nothing but silent sorrow.
