The soup of sorrow

Comes in threes.

 

That dissemination

of

disappointment, dysfunction, death –

 

 

those tumultuous potions

that threaten my

compunction

to function.

 

Unleavened dispersions

from heaven

inclined to have

been severed.

 

Hands extended

for blessings withheld.

 

Only to

be beat back.

 

Seeming to say

take that –

but not this –

 

hitting me brutishly

like clenched fists.

 

I fall

bruised, battered.

 

Infused.

 

Saturated with sorrow

feeling as if

my tomorrow

cannot be

borrowed, loaned or extended

not unlike a

line of credit.

 

Digging deep.

Finding peace

knowing that this –

indebtedness

will be assumed

by a higher power.

 

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