Of pearls, of swine

pearl of my fury
you grow here in this,
the shell of my heart.

what is that irritant
around which layers of anger,
like those of nacre in a pearl,
have built the gem of my ire?

the torture of my innocent beloved
by an insidious disease while
the so-called All-Merciful,
the All-Loving, is silent, does nothing.

As He did when the six million Chosen
were slaughtered and beside them
the five million Gentiles
and millions more innocents to this day.

Seek better comfort in the wind,
in the rain, the stars, the moon,
the sun and its children the flowers,
the fruit of the vine, some heady wine.

the wine dissolves the fuming nacre
as does her now rare buoyant laughter.
But soon there will be but stillness.

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012


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