COOKING

Boil the broth of pure discontent
swirl the seasonings of each day's wonder,
why is life an ax for the heart
when we only want a pillow for our soul
to rest among the citadels
which torment us in their shadows?

Looking deeply inward
seeing the creeping vines
of each tear, each momentous gasp
bleed from the heart
when we fell wounded to the core,
knife still stuck in our throat,
pain of lament screams to the sky,
no one hears, nor cares about the wailing.

Where do we find the hugs
and who first reaches out with arms?
Can we sob in silent agony
before a horizon where the faces we meet
never listen for other than
our surrender to their desires?

Is injustice really a infection without cure?
Or is there bread we can bake
having more hope and love
than the bittersweet taste from the abuse pantry
so souring to soul and passion?