pain of indifference

At the hurl of a storm, the tree collapses.

Stagnant from then on, broken. Such an easy thing to be.

In the unpredicted wind, it sways

back and forth on its trunk, tendons straining

The impending clouds could dance to the north or south.

It’s the uncertainty that cracks the bark

Devours the fruit of life from leaves

Tears apart the very veins, spills them out

A bloodbath before

the storm even hit.

Inherent of us to feel things this way

Our pain feeds not on the lack of our worth

But the questioning of it.

Flesh and blood, crimson

All we are is the same.

Our pain is rooted in those we care for most,

the query if they care for us the same.

I hate that.

Shouldn’t love be the sole artifact

Dug from the bonds with these statues we love

The ones of flesh and blood?

Better yet, shouldn’t the pain of unrequited love

Be the greater lost?

How childish of us to grieve uncertainty above all.

Death happens every minute

And here the rest of us are, weeping

Over the obscurities of what’s unknown.

I hate that, too.

Would we be less petty

If such feelings could be controlled?

Could they be controlled at all?

I wouldn’t know.

In the meantime we’ll sit and wait and feel.

This isn’t ok. This isn’t not ok.

It’s just what we’ll do

For days on end, till a savior flies down and back

Takes the pain’s weight with it.

It’s just what we’ll do

It’s just all we know.