Is the specter rising
In darkness;
Bringing deep pall
Over merriment,
Welling up
Within the hearts of souls in need,
Seeking joy
Which holidays might bring?

There is no accountability
In families,
As we seek to explain away
Bad behavior.
Stand tall, ye of fifty years,
Whose mother calls you child,
And blames herself
For your own reckless behavior,
While you smile your sinister smile,
And place your blame
For sins never sinned
Outside of your own twisted brain.

When will it be enough?
When will you go away?
Perhaps after you have extracted
The last ounce of goodness
From good people
Whose ranks you do not share.

Consider your sins,
Will you?
And let havoc bring you down,
For when your family stood in need
You wrote fiction,
And turned your blind eyes away.

You need no antique mirror,
Nor appraisal on therapist’s couch.
Never ask for a stranger’s opinion,
Or seek clapped hands
At runway’s end.

You sing no song worth hearing;
Spare us your written word.
Speak not as we stop to linger,
For they are words that we’d rather not hear.