it is one exquisite cage

where we sit kindly with our rage

sipping tea,

from antique porcelain cups.

*

we cross our knees as we were taught

knowing precisely what we ought;

making sure our pretty chins

are always up.

*

but we are never satisfied.

no, we are barely pacified.

*

then faint, we overhear

blowing in from damper rooms

notes so strong, so clear

in almost familiar tunes.

*

as nearly comes a feeling

which vaguely we remember,

but can’t name upon rehearing

(perhaps ‘august’ or ‘december’).

*

it unnerves us

we recall

as we site here with it all,

surrounded by exactly what we wanted.

*

we ourselves did drop the ball.

the sway began there with the fall

of this elusive thing

which now remains to taunt us;

*

how by it’s mere existence

labels darkly our resistance

as the very rope that binds us

into our own persistence.

*

left, unprotected.

somehow rightly, disconnected

from what we really need.

indeed.

‘satisfied’ taken from 59:15 of the psalms.