Neglect begets

Neglect begets

Never-to-be’s stunted spiritual growth in excessive demand by the resentful at the bottom of the stairs.

Mother would say, “Let’s talk about roses,” and send anger scurrying to the too-cluttered corners; I knew that was the cause of all those thorns pricking my ten year-old fingers. Caught in a servitude competition.

This is the communal journey against the lie of history-father, of bitterness.

How do we explain away stealing the voices of angels from children long blinded by the hopeless.

Fractured conversations flap in memories caught in the draft of bitterness; toss the forgotten onto the rainbow grill.

I’m waiting for the pain to grow past the bounds of flesh, to push outside of myself in 3-4 time and keep us drifting out the door. I just keep tripping over my joyous expectations where they crumble in puddles on the floorboards.

Wish I could turn off that missing part being so vigilantly ground in the earth/ glad that I can’t

Angel on the edge of wing-spread.

If your arms are not the part of you that truly embraces who I am, and yet it’s your love that brings the safety needed for peace enough to dream, then why do I crave them so in restful moments?

At the worst moments of any given day thoughts of stained glass, forested hills, and a bite on my flesh can bring joy.

Why do I reflect so often, find myself wondering, what windmill does your mind you tilt at? Who is your Sancho P, is it me, or am I Dulcenea?