The Stationary Qualm

The Stationary Qualm

The rations of love don’t suffice

in proportion to the original sacrifice.

Families rise to come clean

from the iron grip of the original sin.

The tapestry is stained with emotion

transactions that didn’t go through,

deficient in love and devotion

trickling words that ain’t true.

Home is the floor of the self.

Encased in thoughts obsessive

and talk of love, fairly excessive

a sensing of drowning and a wishing well.

The rent is low like the tide

a moonlapse and our chests,

a perfect place to hide

and nurture our unrest.

The porch shares a view of our demise.

a crippling sensation of inadequacy.

A god that’s forgotten our privacy

and tries to dry his watery eyes.