Third time writing you a letter, getting darker. Im getting worse and worse. I had a reason for the writing, but trying to exorcise my demons didnt work. To try to rid me of The worry and to purge you out of wonder for the future and the hurt. I wrote a poem Im increasingly aware Ive been painting things in gray, Im increasingly alarmed by the pain, Im increasingly alive to every cloud up in the sky, Im increasingly afraid its going to rain. See, lately Ive hated me for overplaying pain. For always pointing fingers out at everyone but Who in fact is guilty and for picking at my scabs like they could never break but they can and They will and Ill spill like a leak in the basement, a drunk in the night choir, just slur all those Words to make deadbeat that sweet old refrain, selfinflicting my pain and therein lies the real Shame I heard when they were picking through the rubble finding limbs, they sang hymns, but Now what of what I sing? The worry, the wonder, the shortness of days, The replacement for purpose, The things swept away by The worry, the wonder, my slightness of frame, The replacements for feeling, The casual lay. And The worst of the wildlife wears clothes and can pray and The worry, the wonder, for three meals a day. Only death unimpeded, not slowing its pace, Brings that petty, old worry and wonder away.
increasingly, worry, wonder, replacement, picking