Past fifty it’s hard to find new sacrificial victims to blame for ones unhappiness. All these years I’ve been waiting for the soulful perfection of others to appear like a magical key and unlock my heart. Then I would be filled with loving-kindness; it would roll in like fog, without effort.

 

Every day I wake up, and I crawl out of bed,
Waiting for love to make its way
Through the war zone in my head.

Every day I turn away from the glass
where an old woman sits frowning
as wind blasts pages from her calendar.

Every day I wait for the parole board
To decide I no longer need
Solitary confinement.

Every night I stare out into dreams
Ready to fly if only
I could find my hands.

Helene Constant
March 2017

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