Do I suffer?
Not pain or fools or the slow passing of time
Not the hollow knock on the bottom of promises
or the shrinking dryness of a joy expired
Nor for the future of children
or the disappointment of mice
or the shrill cheerfulness of martyrs
But in reality perceived
The happiness hanging on the tree
The grey of a Monday you can touch
For the present absent and the absent present
Attaching to forms so well
the joins don’t show
In delusion so strong it can brick me out of bliss
out of loving as a verb and into a private prison
where I bump into self-made walls
For whom do I suffer?
For me or for you?
Do I have a choice?
The answer is in life
and the choosing of it