It is to weep, to wrestle, to writhe, to wrench
The folding of my fingers, my fist to clench.
To suck, to sullen and someday swoon,
The promise of an afternoon.
To calm, to color, to kiss your cheeks,
To obsess o’er you for fifty weeks.
To fetch, to falter, to fail to release,
To forget your family; your English-speaking niece.
To sicken, to sink, to swelter without sun,
For nearly five years, I’ve watched you run.
To shut out, shut off, from shame to sadness,
To beg release from this relentless madness.
To haunt, to horror, to not escape,
The eternity of your timeless shape.
To quicken, to capture, my pulse, my heart,
I find no beauty in any art.
To redact, to reduce, to rewrite my page,
I’m the empty, the foolish, the unknowing sage.
To pilgrim, to power, to squander and waste,
I’ve blazed a trail worth disgust and disgrace.
To rebuff, to rebuke my faithless friends,
I’ve dismissed their motives as well as their ends.
To trust, to teach, to seek wise counsel,
I’ve sought advice by homes, by houseful.
To correct, to consider, to give me hope,
They suggest I implore you with one more note.
Is it better to guess, to query, to continuously write,
Or to be the author and writer of my eternal plight?