a poem by Lee Emmett, Australia - poetry writer, author, poet

what can be done with this problem
it’s been addressed, redressed, ignored
and now it’s time to file it away as too hard
because nothing is worse than one shared, the
problem that is, can’t imagine sharing anything
any more, gave that up a while ago, saw signs
and lines drawn in the sand, any schemes grand
were buried six feet under in the pauper’s grave
and all that was saved at the time were trinkets
things steeped in meaning, at least for the mother
and others in the family, but the problem remains
and it’s still the same, as if nothing had happened
and all the efforts of decades counted for nought
the treasure sought in a vast wasteland of old souls
yet the problem persists, a dull ache, constant pain
and again and again a monster arises, remonstrates
demonstrating a certain determination to live, gives
lie to truth of free will, and still it thrives, lurking
within shadows, and works its way into consciousness
like a leap of faith from a bridge into fast-flowing
river, caring not a whit or a jot for the sort of risk
taken, its faith unshaken in its right to be heard, and
it’s hard, so very hard to break free of this problem

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