A mere shroud

Some  ddwell   not in their  too human flesh

They  inhabit not their  feelings nor their breast

To be with them is  vile, but I digress

I’d rather live with cats and holy ghosts.

if we fail to enter our true being;

With accident and trauma felt too soon

Or. with a mother tormented and unseeing,

We linger sadly, helpless as her moon.

Is it possible to come home to ourselves

When failure marked our earliest attempts?

Will love arise spontaneously  dissolve

When often forced back by our own dissent?

Will night’s darkness  be  more than a  mere  shroud

Covering with its cloak the  selfish crowd?