APPALLED

 This suffering,,, feels like an acnestis upon my soul;
like that little patch of skin on the back
that  can't be reached to scratch, 
cannot be touched
to smooth over.
 Annoying,
it's left me reaching, spinning around in circles,
dog chasing tail... mind railing against all knowledge of this arachaic, merciless affliction -  this psychic pain.  
 
I am a mendicant
at you door.
You donate only pain
for which there is no salve. No plaster - for you are the master 
of memories... 
an inactment of experiences
like child with mother
they elicit a knowing of being:
whole and apart,
       full and empty,          present and absent,              near and distant with you.
  The give and take,        intrusion and expulsion,          protection and threat,               sameness and otherness... of you.
Opposites attract 
and still there’s nowhere to hide
   - this longing from the knowing,    - this emptiness from its ever-gnawing growing of an inner lack which cannot be palled*

         love once thwarted -          becomes           joy forestalled...




BjR  November 6, '09
 mendicant: beggar;  palled: to become satiated.