Can words of love secure the scattering form,
when all one's memories have peeled away from warmth?
When all one's living's lived in feeding scorn,
how can one repeal such acts against one's health?
A mother's words are words of wealth,
and a mother's love speaks for itself.
But a father's words sit 'top the highest shelf,
and glean shows through the dust only in anger, when you spurn it.
Misery loves company, though it doesn't deserve it.
Joy deserves an audience, although it rarely earns it.
Misery's a fossil: you must unearth it
from memory's burial ground, where the haunted past stirs.
Therapy's a good thing, just be firm.
Actions speak just as loudly as words.
The stories we tell should be the ones we deserve
as we pick through the scattered facts of our lives.
For all in all we must survive,
forgetting the when the where and the why.
All that matters is grace, as it yolks the now.
We must carry our truth through the rest of our lives.
