Between the Lines
Suffer I, the sorrow of living
as I touch with all that I am
the tears that flow without reason
but rhyme through me
to reduce the conflict and disruption
to a once perfect life in retrospect.
That first strike came at year 30,
piercing to the depths of me.
The second upon his leaving
with the bareness of words
attached to the closing of the door.
The third was drawn, on the pulling out
of the others, leaving me confused
feeling vengeful until...
Sensibility and order
and a bit of hope was restored
with the aid of those who know,
who have been there and survived.
"Love is not blind - It sees more and not less, but because it sees more, it is willing to see less."