He sits across the room,
by Betty Jo Hilger
rooted, certain of the truth
contained within the album of his psyche.
Cold as winter ice, his eyes accuse
stalwart defenders of perfidious treachery.
Opinion forged, unalterable,
he stands unto death upon conviction.
Unwavering; inconsolable; suffering in agony
at perceived deceitful infidelity.
Hope and peace lay trampled
on gravel paths of shattered glass
littering causeways forged in kilns of apprehension.
Despite evidence of proven loyalty,
regardless of professions of devotion,
he remains absolute in resolute conclusion.
He is alone.
Love and faith are naught but reliquary residue,
vestiges of insanity, remnants, of naïve purity,
which experience has cast aside;
cadaverous and moldy,
disintegrated by reality
created twisted and malformed within his mind.
While rescuers relentlessly hammer prisons’ door,
he fortifies his walls with forceful strength,
unwilling and unable to comprehend the nature of intent.
Each perception he espies,
is painted with a brush of disbelief,
veracity and truth interpreted by languages of expectation.
He sees what he believes, believing what is seen,
and cannot amend his certainty.
**excerpt from 'Living in Chaos Survival: A Parenting Journey...' **Published through LuluPress 2004