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The Consolations



Still there is suffering,
but gone are the consolations.

We are not special in what we see
but in how we look.

What is necessary to me
is what is superfluous to others.

Think of all those you have failed to love.
What are you, that loves so poorly?

How deftly we accept
what we cannot excuse.

The world trapped in the loop of the year,
not renewal but reiteration.

We can endure everything
until suddenly we can't.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.