Self-Made Victim


At noon I forgave

that which in morning

I could not, so eager

to stoke the fire of offended victim.


If you gaze deep within

Clear-eyed, unburdened

by petty hurts, ask yourself:

does this matter?


I waited for death to decide.

I faced the pine box.

The weather turned around me

autumn prevailed, chill licked my flesh.


Life’s lesson curled its finger.

Clinging to grudges.

Holding harms, giving them power.

Does this help?


I am ashamed to understand myself,

perpetuating trivial rancor for no sake at all.

Self-made victims scraping wounds

To make them bleed again.


end 9/24/2016 (3)

S. Darlington


Categories: Writings

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