Hail to the privation I knew not yet how to miss,
An utter desolation, mistaken, once, for duty’s bliss.
They weigh like pregnant cloud banks, the humid memories,
Heaving their stomach contents — at the mere sight of virility.
Wisdom pledges anguish, a mind corset never willed,
And so knowledge begets reprisal, always by loss instilled.
Perhaps by now I should hail amnesia, a sleepy mercygrace,
Avail myself of small white pellets, to put me back in my place.
August 25th, 2019 by Passenger B ©
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