What it is I've found in the course of this I will tell you. I will. I will, But there’s little comfort in knowing. The awful and the good get beaten down Like a snitch in the prison yard, Fist upon fist, kick upon kick, Pain upon goddamned pain. How many of the living, the wounded, The blameless and marked, Should I expect to be wasted? The abuser has cruelty like illumination, They can see within it, yet know not its heart. The abused have fear like darkness, They can't see within it, yet know when it's upon them. What I’ve found in the course of this I will tell you. I will. I will, But, like I said, there’s little comfort in it. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)