second stone

I’ve been accused
Of aloofness,

Deep grey in the way
Of my lone-wolfness:

Distant, maybe lost,
Or at unrest, at least;

Too-heart-crossed,
At a witch-trial’s very best;

Angry, even,
As has been the beast

Of inordinately many
Malformed misfortunes—

Dirt-disenchanted,
Reaching for but the choice,

The right-to-love-roofless—
Still just salt for the urchins.

A few’ve recanted,
As they’ve found me unlost:

A faithful friend,
And as staid as stone.

Others’ve left me
At accursed-cost:

Cold, alone,
Abandoned to their own myiasis,

When what’s truly ice
‘Midst their impenetrable frost—

And so-chillingly,
Unapproachably ruthless—

Is how unclimbably high
And mistook-him-mossed

Their jury-box
Of sacked ivory surely is.

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