Less than expected,
the rolling pain invested,
and that ache of realisation,
that without purpose I endure.
Suffered at the hands of a tyrant,
the mirror suggests far less,
but I confess, I’m not convinced
that I know its me alone.
The plays are long, the changes slow,
and by the time the bite breaks through,
I forget how it started,
lose track of the cycles I create.
But weathered I am
by the turbulence I create,
regardless of how I recognise my fate,
always hiding from the truth.
And as I stare into my reflection,
a soul, restless, squirms,
slighted by a superficial pretence,
easier to ignore than discern.
So in the deep shadows of my cognizance
I know, backtracking proves the lie,
its me and my ineptitude
that creates my every ploy.
Tyrants walk a tight rope,
forced advantage in the end rebels,
and everything created
falls as circumstances repelled.
We are responsible,
every thought and move attributable
to our intentions first professed,
and all that follows at our request.
Blaming anything is just wrong,
for we alone hold the reigns,
in life we are the pilot,
in pain we are the student, to pay.
The sooner we recognise the process,
the sooner we relent,
to know just what we create,
and in penance resign to learn.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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