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Soul sorrow brandishes her,

Dispossesses and stuns her.

Unknown answers perambulate.

Easy to pluck from the air,

or so she assumes,

But that’s not the way of it.

Obscured they stay, out of reach,

so she waits.

Impediment or opportunity? she wonders.

Depends on the day, it seems.

Perhaps her perception needs cleaning,

A scouring, wrangling of sorts.

Regardless, dispiritedness prevails,

a familiar prick in the side,

not so easily dismissed.

And why would it be? she asks. When it’s

Well-used and in good running order?

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