A Reflection's Promise

Cynical, disconsolate, destitute - quiet do your heartstrings hum.
Nothing greater than a sibilation you poor, drained soul.
It yearns me to raise you back up again, to a place less sick,
To a place less cruel, and more so a place less unholy.
It does present you with no appeal and with no breath of a pure kind,
That you so desperately lack. Misery, oh misery.
How can one grow with such little matter?
Do the Powers look down and observe their garden - or is their definition, scrutiny?
When the fruit ripens do they take their pick and when the fruit rots
Do they leave them hanging until their blasted time of fall -
Again do I understand how goodwill did not bless the Creators themselves,
Nor how kindliness exists upon anyone. Yet there you are:
Wrapped up in your purity, and entangled in their pointed barbs,
But still holding on to what is left.
Frustration can only consume me more, as I am but permitted to stand apart
And only wish for a path to show, different to that bound to your sole.
This frustration - more so dismay. It will consume me, so I too will collapse.
So how can your renewal sprout if both walls of our sanctum fail?
I know not of what actions must take course in the imminent future,
But bury my next words closest to that in which you treasure;
I shall stand firm for you, and this I can solemnly swear.

24/03/14
Caroline Schmiermann