ON BEING HURT, April 1997

Take not from me my will
My prized possession
The exercise of which
Gives me a freedom
Nothing else can.
It hurts my deepest being
If that very freedom
Is denied and spurned
And I am diminished
When I need it most.


Take not my soul and use it ill
Until it withers, dry in sadness.
Take not my heart
And wring it with unthinking hands
Until it bleeds and shrinks
And tears fall silent from my aching eyes.


JEB

For more information on these poems, contact edmund@balnaves.org