Part One of a Poetic Triptych

Nestled in sympathy
Falling apart.
Through distinctions unknown
To a lessening heart.

Through years of digression,
Twenty false starts,
A million poor choices;
Self-destruction, or art?

Reconciled through excess
Knowing no ends,
Rivulets of a life dry
Through self-made faulty ground.

Shunning of all helpful
Words that abound…
Self-sacrifice? Hardly.
More like self-pity, now.

A light might be seen, though.
Visible to
A home at rock bottom
Without much of a view.

A faint silhouette is
Now likened to
A mirage from the gods
That’s too good to be true.