RAW LIFE…
Crude, life…
Wild life, but it is not supposed to be so, is it?
Yet, it is simply what it is – raw life, crude and wild!
Within the person of a woman,
Within the treasure of shame, is the poverty of laying bare.
Unstoppable like the weeping and crying of a child…
Who just won’t shut-up.
Her soul, in front of her, for her to protect, comfort
Could she be heard, for all that she feels?
Can she be saying, all that she would like to do?
Reorder things to her liking
No, she is not perpetually sad or upset
It’s but her sophistication at the margins of his carelessness
Yes, she is just distressed.
…
Patiently looking on the world, in her household
Careless all else, that does not forgive her, ever
How continually does she take the pains, to keep it altogether?
But herself…shattering every now and every then
Like so, she never comes around to herself.
Brought on how, though?
Waiting why, though?
Calling on whom, though?
Then Trusting why, though?
A woman’s ‘hold-out’ of holding-in,
Not a safe respite of a hold-out
But, it is just that - raw, crude and wild.
Isn’t it?
Dushwari