Where, bitter, comes satisfaction from words,
And not from life? From the poet’s mind, of
Course .. from all others... Bitter weep the gourds
Of Motherhood. How so?.. You think .. dove

Wings solve all…? How bitter words that emerge,
Freedom-sought, without true cross of love.
How bitter life whose crossed. So sings the dirge
Of songs to future purged, there’s no above

Below what’s deemed as worth. Sigh... Where bitter
Runs the course of time? Where quicker can she
Find her mind? What gives me the right to err?
Where more futile can I be, can I Be?

Where bitter, lives overreaction me,
Quantisizing all that I see .. being me…

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 5/23/06