In your
Feral grief
Wild, you gnaw
Off your own
And the limbs of others.
Small limbs.
Childs' limbs.
Small hearts.
Your own blood.
Casualties
Of your suffering.
Of your unexamined
History,
Of your untamed
Reactivity.
Blinded by rage,
Wounds—
Old and new—and
Unacknowledged
Expectation, your
Self righteousness, your
Victimhood forms
A blood circle.
Anything in reach
Of the blade
Of your pain
Risks laceration.
But in reliving the past
In the present
You cannot see
Crimson footprints
Haunting your steps.
Cannot see that the
Unwillingness to look
Heralds your possession.
I watch as
Hafiz’s Mirror does:
Present
Reflecting
Abiding
Loving.
I pray.
I pray for
Your wakefulness
Lest the burden of wreckage
Left in your wake
Be too much
For you to bear.
Or lest the truths
Of these moments also
Go unseen
Unacknowledged.
Their wisdom
Squandered
Allowing the cycle of
Pain to continue
In the three-limbed
And wounded-hearted.
