I was formed and fashioned in what Kipling called The House of Desolation. My father an unpredictable, alcoholic, sexual predator, his wife a compliment to him. We were literally locked out in the heat or cold unless it rained. I would play in an unfurnished basement on those days and move about performing to the invisible benfactor that would come and rescue me if she could but simply observe my existence. She would come. Salvation would be sent henceforth. It was not to be. It will not be.
I watch the horizon for hope as one shipwrecked on the shores; as one banished by brutality. I watch until my eyes are exhausted, my neck is in a noose of tension, my are shoulders sobbing at me to stop.
I watch for the cavalry that never comes, the valiant vindication that veers off to the right, just beyond my sight; the battle cry on my behalf and the social media salvation that stops just short of my digital door.
I have determined to avert my gaze; to fix my eyes; to set my face like flint; to look with longing upon the landscape of Love; to the hills where my help comes from.
Peace be unto you and ALL that is yours.
Peace me unto me too.