In the beginning was the pilgrimage to
Tender atrocities
At the edge of unbending lights,
Nothing was itself.
Smiles crept into shadows of
Every emancipated evening; if that was not enough,
The original sin got reenacted, knocking
A hole in every unforgiving past,
Finally one too many; spilling
Into the noise of tears, waiting for the end.
Now, everything is itself, at the near edge of discontent,
As if plunged deep into abandon;
A resignation? No, a wobbly ascension.

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T. Byram Karasu, M.D. is the author of Rags of My Soul