These Simple Sorrows

These simple sorrows.

Small. Carried. Known.

Inflicting little instances of inspiration —

where artist and art meet,

where emotion births creation.

Such are these simple sorrows.

Complex and loaded,

internal and directed,

toward self-erasure.

Kenosis becoming Theosis.

Such simple, wounded sorrows —

blessings both given and held,

truth spoken and withheld,

lives living because of love,

meaning mingled with intent.

Such sweet little sorrows:

they come with a whimsy

and leave with a flight…

doors slammed, mocking their own frames,

echoes blaming echo.

Such the life that breeds these little sessions

of shared and reflected sorrow’s lessons —

in poetry, no less, for all:

the method of incising and excising

the self without wasted tears.

Such is the nature of life and its simple sorrows.

Each day holds enough in its measure for more.

The gentle in heart need not the heavy hand of terror,

nor the meek the domineering displays of sovereignty,

nor the pure — for to the pure, all things are pure.