I should have grown up happy
despite the expectations...
can we be so sure we are
such a disappointment?
And when we pray, what sound
is heard on the other side of existence-
a small, desperate scratching
at the door? I believe that
sorrow is an animal of sickness,
that love is nothing more than
begging for a warmer burrow,
a hand to stroke our fur.
All the scientists of reason, all
elusive, natural explanations
leave us colder, darker, needing
comfort than the shadows
we create.
