Let my anguish subside, my Lord.
I did my best to heal myself,
My wounds are now poems and trees,
It is turbulence within that does not cease.
The seasons You revealed to me—
The transient yet truthful nature of being—
That this moment is all I have to breathe.
Haven’t I talked myself out of misery,
A thousand times…yet once I fail?
The ego supersedes the wisdom,
And I bring blemish upon my people,
With all my learnings gone bane.
My hatred, my Lord, burned nothing but me.
My hatred, my Lord, wounded all—and me.
My roots, my fruits, my flowers, my trees.
The garden I had in springing bloom
Now lies desolate, dry, and draped in gloom.
If I am not my angst, but only Thee,
If I am not my anguish, but only Thee,
Must I bear the penance of its sins?
Must I endure an insomnia of guilt?
I can kneel, my Lord, but I cannot weep—
Too wounded to cry alone,
Too proud to be seen.
This residue of consumed memories—
I know not to scatter it as dust
Or preserve and freeze.
Hatred must not accompany me to the pyre.
It must end before my end, my Lord.
~T T “Papermate“~
Papermate is just another face in the maddening crowd.
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