There becomes a slight pang,
grows with each sense of desire
perhaps some might call it pain,
yet this speaker would suggest a small fire.
There becomes that need to understand,
yet the clock ticks its metered reality,
and the notion, the ideal, some aspect
of hope,
is filtered down again,
to a one-time solution that never satisfies.
We can sit here all day long and spout off about
success, recovery, decent appraisal of our lives today,
though the path seems clear, still we wander,
when turbulent seas settle in to the mind,
there must be some reaction, an outlet, a place
to land the angst we have so often gained control of
in the past.
Yet, I want to be here,
this present of serenity,
this presence is all I ask.
How might we figure out some way
to address the constancy of
of
of
inherent failure modeled around
a sometime human compassion.
Other time a stigma whose most powerful advocate
must be the man, the woman, child,
the benefactor of resource gone awry.
There it is then, that transference is well on its way.
Get thee to a session old man,
Get thee to a human factory of love.
