A night of fretful nostalgia:
wishing I could right wrongs irrelevant
by years, hating the highlights borne
of resentful hindsight
twenty twenty vision voided by the voice
I could not find.
Pitied, but never enough
pleading, but never indulged
the cut lip of lust
the loose lips leading to loss of trust
the softest sabotage mustered by
misdirected seething, an onslaught
its own sort of surrender.
A pacifist's hands outstretched to
accept every single callous strike
cowardice clothed in the complicit quiet
of suppressed questions:
who's the victor, when blood
is the only victory here?
©sweepingly
S