For sadness ever takes shape like this,
All jagged edges and broken,
A diamond swallowed unwilling and
Cutting the stomach with no precision.
It slices at the softest parts,
Knows the pieces that will bleed,
And the nerves that wake easiest.
Soon the ulcer becomes cancerous,
Growing slowly because you don’t know.
Doctor’s all say the same,
It is just heartbreak,
And will pass with time.
But time heals only the superficial,
And steals away with the thought of true cure.
Tumor advances, wrapping around the soul,
And squeezing so the anger begins to ooze out,
Moving ever closer to the surface,
Waiting for a breath of air to suck in and use for voice.
But what will it scream, what will anger speak to the world?
It has waited too long, it is septic, and now it will utter,
Whatever the sadness of the heart bids.
The Sadness speaks to the Anger, and says this or that,
These are the words you will utter.
And the Anger knows to wait longer still,
Running his lines to master them, set to deliver
A great oration of razor sharp pain.
Angers masterpiece will send pain throughout the amazed audience,
Nessun Dorma writ of hurt and insult, darker but no less beautiful.
And then Anger sins, and sings his opus of ugliness,
Piercing all around with his hate.
Some ingest it, and are infected, while some run.
And the others will stop Him, but it is too late.
The One anger intended to hurt, she is destroyed,
And will never repent or forgive now.
The wreckage has been laid out, and now sadness starts new
In another.
But if instead sadness would scream to the Heavens,
Screech at the Lord Almighty to offer counsel,
Perhaps HE would answer with wisdom.
Would Wisdom tell sadness the proper action…
Sadness in turn might fade to something less, and be removed entire.
Indeed.
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