Another Push of Pain

Unhappiness ignores the weather: oblivious

to cold or heat, it feathers its dank nest

with the precipitations of its sins – extrapolates

identity from its attenuated certainties: until its mist

begins to thicken and persist – sufficient to insist

on public shows of its inexorable signature: its

blatant bloodlessness. Intoning odes to all its stolen,

borrowed sorrows – declaiming existential poverty

provides another push of pain – a reason to remain,

exist – as if abysses were a wish against which

it was powerless not to align with, a threat by which

it must define itself, if sadly. However it would end,

it would end badly. Beware the dares and come-ons

from the subtle void, with its evaporative violence.

Find the baleful music in the moan.  Unhappiness

does not do well in silence, or alone.

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