Empty Palette

I can recall, but not revisit travail of childbirth,
wince at remembered abscess or broken bone,
or pump a well of personal grief and despair,

it never runs dry.

Not one of these aches lends me right to speak with your voice,
to weep through your blindfold, keen out your pain
muffled through arid, choking cloth, betrayed by humanity,

as the first stone is cast.

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ed.16.12.10