tillness of mind and fortitude of heart
i am a Pandora--of knots and holes
and silver crosses--of polemic hope.
even deities can be cracked--heaven's
eloquence offers no shelter, no home
for crying gods' elegies to a Hera.
they--(who is this royal fatalist: they?)
recommend two acetaminophen, hands
exfoliated and washed clean of hurt;
they--(immortal, imperative, why?)
however, prescribe a second helping
of l'amour: you've armour--your ardour.
but every sliver of a year's december
shrouded in perpetual november
sees Pandora sculpt its vice into hope.