about that wretched cringing creature,
one that crawled forward in slow degrees,
reaching out her hand,
the motion almost undetectable to the unpracticed eye;
reaching out for a scrap of affection, a morsel of love, a kernel of desire,
reaching out for a measure of solace, seeking, always...
The stinging retort that follows is almost welcome in it's biting hurtfulness,
welcome in it's sobering affect - maybe that would help maintain a tenuous connection with a palatable reality;
a reality where one isn't nearly as despicable, nor pitiable,
where perhaps the hurt and the pain would bury the festering illness,
where perhaps the disillusionment would keep the facade intact,
that of serenity, of cool acceptance, of unwavering unstinting strength...
The strength that is sorely tested in the face of bitter reality,
a strength under appreciated, overworked, utterly, so utterly indispensable,
yet, a cackling, greasy, mocking voice is quick to point out the obscenely disproportionate sense of one's importance,
of one's pain and one's emotions that sets the stage to such vivid colour.
Pray what importance does it really have, in the larger scheme of things?
And that sense of valour slinks away - duly chastened, unduly summoned, indiscriminately abused.
Yet, maybe not pitiable, if indeed despicable....
the creature with shorn wings, and clipped hopes,
unnecessary pain, and with valour; just a smidgeon of valour.