Mess

Nocturne No. 7

What I know about suffering
Could fit inside an empty fist—
Lovers, daughters I have missed
By subtle cuts, numb severance

I’ve made my circumstances worse
With something like the consciousness
That I advanced from mess to mess
As would-be heroes pile up wars

The difference is: they look past pain
The way a preacher looks past laughter—
Unlike this comic dirge’s author
Who can relate, but can’t explain