The Albatross

I used to think      
those hanging an albatross      
around their neck      
were serious about penance—        
those standing their ground        
saying, I refuse to retreat      
but will go down with this ship        
because that's how much I believe;      
or, deeply loved—        
       
because any other behavior      
would mean I did not      
       
Yet, sooner or later        
some kind rebound lover        
bearing gifts and poetry        
appears in shining armor;      
or, perhaps another target      
and they finally swallow      
that bitter revenge        
they so sought after—
     
perpetuating the pattern         
       
I realize Hollywood        
covers up that type of pain;        
we watch and hope regardless—      
heartbroken for others        
who refuse to let go        
and enjoy time while they can        
       
There is a balance      
between past and present—        
some never seem to find it;        
or, are afraid that release      
would mean losing        
what memories they had left;    
or, they might appear weak
in surrender      
       
There is a method to the madness—      
a secret; maybe us who see clearly      
understand the beauty and art      
in every lesson - including loss;        
even when they're swearing        
to God that none exists—      
that it’s not fair        
they should be treated        
or are feeling like this        
       
Before you ask, yes—        
despite what I have endured      
I still believe the Universe is just;        
it returns one of two things:        
that which we sow;        
or, plan before birth        
so as to spiritually evolve        
       
I have learned from experience        
that no one can change        
unless they truly want to;        
still, I don’t know what substitute        
manuscript to offer them        
amid such helplessness      
when I appear to be the one        
they keep blaming for it all      
       
Each of us grow tired of circumstance      
one way or another: unrequited love      
razors, bottles, tobacco, drugs        
sex we can’t keep track of        
but wish we could flush or burn—        
forcing the ones we care about      
to stop using, hiding, running—      
just long enough to accept responsibility      
for their own actions and choices      
and remember hope        
       
This is a never ending story      
recycling lives; it’s the same      
hallowed ground as Pet Sematary;        
but their returned presence        
doesn’t have the same effect      
as when they actually lived      
       
I know why so many people        
practice sorcery in secret—      
it’s those empty dreams        
slashing reminders        
  of what could’ve been, if only        
it wasn’t someone else’s fault—        
when there is never, ever      
anyone to blame—      
not even themselves        
       
No matter how hard I wish        
they would burn their spells        
and honor whatever loss or death        
instead of resurrecting it        
over and over again        
out of fear and regret—      
I know it can’t be forced;        
therefore, I wish I had an antidote        
that could excavate saltwater        
from their tainted blood—        
       
so they would realize        
once and for all, that        
it was all part of learning      
they are not a fool—        
that they never, ever      
regardless of any choice        
       
needed the weight        
of that albatross        
~