The only complaint I have

Is against myself.

There is no point complaining

To anyone if they can’t fix it.

No point in wasting words

That bounce off the walls

And back at your ears,

In an empty chamber

That has bars for windows.

There is no one who can

Fix my longstanding complaint,

Except One.

And He doesn’t seem much concerned

About it.

Maybe, He has too much

On His mind.

So, he chooses neither to reject it

Nor to accept it

And therefore, fix it.

He leaves me in a limbo of a life,

Quite conveniently for Him.

If it can be called a life;

Neither swimming nor drowning,

Neither burning nor extinguished,

Neither resplendent green nor bone parched dry,

Neither shining at noon, nor setting at dusk,

Just gray and ashen and alone,

Painfully alone.


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