Misery

I’m hopelessly drawn to misery,

to long, pulled faces and broody eyes that hide hatred behind their thunder.

It is the deathly pallor that does the trick

the kind accompanied by the migraines

that send birds flying in directions that do not exist.

See that hand that holds the golf club,

mustering strength to shatter the birthday gift

that has no value – sentimental or monetary?

It is that hand that will write it’s own death

when the vase lies on the floor, irreparable

and the club has chipped the wall

with a groove that will be filled

by next tenant.

But the groove will remain in the hearts

of those who cried

to see him go, who sit on white sheets, with long

pulled faces and sorrow hidden behind the thunder in their eyes.

It is this misery that draws me,

the circular pull of borrowed grief and anguish.

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