How can it be, to take bitter strife and gleam it into day?
How envious a maneuver to cause darkness fall to light.
It seems that all the happy, sweet and settled, around me
have rigged this sort of fixture.
Perhaps not of their will, but grown in them as some protective fiber:
their dreams, mossing up their minds in softness.
As once I was.
But I forked mine,
wholly up-drew the stringy roots,
clipp’d out my internal pores.
And now my ground will not uptake, those now long-wanted weeds which I forsake.
Or any point of matter
or element of meaning.
The earth of my psychology cannot bear and is deeply draining.
Even the sapling or the seed withers–to my grief, and all of me despairs.
Without recompense I’ve found: my concrete, deflowered treasure of