Deep in my artistic harmonies,
I cannot understand why life does what it does to us.
It curls around my personable certitude,
making me forget who I am and what I can do.
It gives me fresh aches and trials to bear,
flush in the September bloom of Despair.
A friend tells me,
“I am alone,”
and so I share her suffering.
I, too, shed the tears of the life of one cruelly misunderstood.
I stand with her in her shoes,
bearing the crucifixion that would try to completely break me.
September is over. A new month begins.