Your Spin

Why is the pain always yours -
 or
    his -
 but never mine?  I suppose, because I know too much to
                                                                           wallow.  I'll own my share
 and have
 but I don't hoard, and I'm not accepting this new variety
                      you heap - or hoist.  I've lived a trilogy, not a tragedy and I'm plotting nothing and this is
  not my battle.  In fact,
      today, the wind carries
        caution.
 I've learned to apprehend its coming.  I feel
             the rain in my gut,
 and the air warns of strain, and I'm not restless, and I can't lead the way.
 I'm not persuading, and there is no path.  I just know
                                                                                                                    when to take
cover.
 I won't debate or writhe, prey in terror and in wait.
I'm tall, delaminated, back erect, leaving ruins,
 and the only thing I wonder is how or why I'm here
again, this place so familiar.
 But now, I have reserve of
                          strength
and I don't pine prostration.
My naked heart won't betray me.
What you don't know
is what I know,
 and there's a scent I
follow.
I'm weaving out, past piles
  of cursed pity, and willows cackling as they weep.  One pilgrimage I make, where there are promises of sanity.
                         The candlelight almost got me, the shadows making faces, fooling.
                          This
                               is not a transfer.
Watch me, now, each step, as each trick scurries, hiding.
 They
                                                                              know better.  Swept once under the carpet, for a
moment, bold,
 they best return.
 I'm not in the house keeping
                               business;
 my home's a mess.
                                   So, here's the door.  I'm exiting.  My help is not
your birthright,
so, keep your lack and I'll keep mine.
I bit it
off,
but I'm spitting out.
 I don't
cater any longer to imaginary grace.
                               I've held the root that
                                        spins
                                              straight to
                                                        hell -
and pulled.

The Sunday Whirl