we gently pray upon our desire
or maybe our desire preys upon us
recoil in disgust at the muck and mire
only to answer, "what's all the fuss?"
life's joys and private hells undreamt of
scale's fulcrum tipping the balance of power
recoiling from the pain of our own love
and the similarity of "devout" and "devour"
Pavlovian, we turn to the bell ringing
for a scrap of nourishment or tender care
too often to find indifference stinging
is all that others have offered there
how can we anthologize a life
without including a rhyming of strife?
© Goode Guy 2012-02-03
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