It brews within me
tyrannical, multi-sided, bitter.
I am made useless
whether in denial or acknowledgement.
I sip the poison in hopes of immunity
and I am made to die by degrees.
One day, I think, I will be very happy.
Meanwhile I will surrender
to this most grievous war,
a soldier in my own right,
a man by measure.
Suffering is relative
therefore we are all susceptible
to its pangs.
I have too much love
but how can I part with any of it?
Even the idea hurts.
What a terrible thing to pass through life
without the benefit of a remembrance.
All is subject to the absent-mindedness of habit.
Everything loved forms a groove
into which it is held securely
albeit without the benefit
of our grateful attentions.