Our cold half-empty houses, side by side,
all filled with all our cold half-empty beds,
wherein we long to be at least half spied
by half a heart that lives inside our heads,
and half of us will find, within our hearts,
at least half of the time, to try our luck,
to make half conversation, striking starts,
but courage comes as half of us are stuck,
stuck half in hope, and half in our despair,
the one half never finds the one it needs,
and so the world is not even half fair
for those whose whole hearts cast all of their seeds.
And then lie in half empty beds, alone,
with all our sowing not even half grown.
~~~
I told a young, defenseless little boy
to stop his stupid tears, his beckoning,
his cries for help that could only annoy
the ears that would not hear of his begging.
I had been taught the same thing, too. It seemed
the best way to ensure he learned as well
that fate is never fair, but always teemed
with those who’d drag his tears with him to hell.
But someone stopped my tongue e’en as it moved—
I felt the fear of God upon my head.
“You may show cruelty to me, behooved
against your torturer, not my child,” it said.
He was so very vulnerable, you see,
because the boy I shouted at was me.