This Very Dissatisfaction

How odd it feels to realise,
you take with you, your lived lives,
to your final resting place.
Your veils will never be lifted.
Your secret stones not shifted.
My roots, trapped in your maze.

I came into your existence,
yet, you kept me at a distance,
with your anger and your passion.
I looked on, became frustrated.
What is love, what is hatred,
when entwined in such a fashion? 

I fled from feeling dejected,
into what I had expected,
would ultimately enable me.
Then faced with separation,
I cried for the lost relation:
The loss of the customary. 

Slowly, I grew to understand,
my pain is merely second-hand,
into which your own blend has crept.
I feel weak to choose indifference.
I feel weak to choose resilience.
I choose therefore, to accept.

I still want selfless acceptance.
I still want it, to have substance,
and bind me to my origin.
This very dissatisfaction,
knows but one course of action,
and that's to hurl me into ruin.
© 1996. Rewritten 16 September 2020, Jacquelene Martina.