Stretched and shapen,
shadowed by trench-coated suffering,
I am bent, broken and beaten down, but
nonetheless something altogether

            Other than
   the pain you see
   reflected in whites
   of frightened eyes and
   the chronic cutting course
   of my interminable life,

            Distinct from
   the ungainly sight
   of an awkward anger
   slapping at the wind,
   bitter waters spreading
   unpleasant aftertaste,

            Removed from
   this babbling lunacy
   that has you laughing
   like an exultant hyena
   or feeling sorry for me,
   whichever it may be…

Mangled and messy,
my life’s trouble is not lord of me; I exist
apart from its morass, and my Maker
treasures cracked earthen vessel that I am.