Jul 2019
I do not understand
Why he sabotaged me so consummately,
And made me look like
Such a pathetic old patsy,
Could he not discern the misery
He was shoring up by degrees,
Over the course of the years
For the self he would ultimately be?
It was perforce a former version of me,
Who led me to this place
Of near-incessant mourning,
A narcissistic anomaly,
Who never wanted the precious gifts
Of peace and domesticity,
The little ones that might have been,
He spirited them all away from me.
Why he sabotaged me so consummately,
And made me look like
Such a pathetic old patsy,
Could he not discern the misery
He was shoring up by degrees,
Over the course of the years
For the self he would ultimately be?
It was perforce a former version of me,
Who led me to this place
Of near-incessant mourning,
A narcissistic anomaly,
Who never wanted the precious gifts
Of peace and domesticity,
The little ones that might have been,
He spirited them all away from me.
'This Place of Near-Incessant Mourning' is a recent work, fashioned from within ‘a place of near-incessant mourning’ as I described it, and yet as of 11 July 2019, the day a final draft was prepared, I feel no sense of mourning, so the term ‘near-incessant’ is not only no longer applicable, but - in the greater scheme of things - inaccurate.
