This exploited effort has left me
hallowed and hardened.
Yet we know not needfully of what our
purpose is proposed.
And how dust dances around my
feet so frequently
All these sounds surfacing like my
metallic notes of memoirs.
Their chinks chiming in such a
discordance of displeasure,
Why would you wish on me these
tremors so traumatic?
What child cocooned from a womb
in a wool of woven want,
Crying, cooing for her mother’s damaging
hands so horrorified
Was a life lived for wicked souls to
gain so garishly?
This poem can be read on poetry.com – http://www.poetry.com/poems/223695