Monthly Archives: November 2011

Broken Silence, Shattered Illusions

Those who have read my poetry and essays in my journal blog know that I lived a childhood of physical and sexual abuse from both parents. My mother was a victim too, but it was years later before I knew that the comfort she wanted from me was equally wrong as what my father was doing. It didn’t seem equal to me then; he hurt me, she didn’t.

One of the hardest things for me to process, let alone admit to a living soul outside of therapy, is the fact that not everything my father did hurt. Now I’m told that is part of a pedophile’s plan, to make the victim feel as though they are also at fault somehow. He didn’t buy me gifts or take me to special events to lure me though, because he didn’t have to. As his son, he could raise me as he chose and he chose to raise me to believe that I was his property and that I had no say or any rights to my own body, mind, or feelings. I believed it, too, and survival became a matter of learning how to avoid making him angry. Of course that was next to impossible, because whatever was mentally wrong with him allowed him to be angry at nothing, at any time.

One of the most traumatic nights of my life began as a boy who wanted his mother. She was in the hospital after a beating, but she had “fallen down the stairs”, officially. I kept asking my father where she was, afraid she wouldn’t come back. He told me to be quiet, but I didn’t listen. He was peeling an apple with a long kitchen knife, and he could make the peel come off in one long curling piece. It fascinated me, so I got closer than I normally would have on my own. When I asked about my mother again, he slashed my face with the knife. The blade cut my cheeks and nearly severed my tongue. He waited too long to take me to the hospital, and the tongue healed badly. I was left with scars in the form of a Glascow Smile, and a speech impediment that seems to get worse if I’m emotionally stressed. I collected many more scars over the years, in skin and in the mind. At sixteen, for defiance, my father blinded my left eye with his cigar. Yet I was raised to accept these things as normal punishments for bad behavior and disobedience. The world outside was given excuses and nobody asked. If they did ask, I lied – as I was taught to do.

As a child (the sexual abuse began when I was four), I was desperate to believe that he loved me. Anytime he didn’t hit me, I would take it as proof of love. When he came to my room at night, I tried to obey and be “good” so he would be kind instead of hateful. I never had any other example to tell me that it was all wrong, sick, and horribly damaging. I was raised to think that this was the relationship between all fathers and sons. Through it all, I believed that he loved me. When his illness gave him the belief that he was a god, he taught me to worship him. I was four, and I wanted to be loved – so I never questioned it.

When I turned five, everything changed. I had defied my father by hiding a puppy he had told me to get rid of. He got rid of it in front of me, and I was punished. Soon after, he brought a strange man home and told me to go with him into the downstairs guestroom. I was terrified and confused when I realized this stranger wanted the same things my father had always said were just for him. I tried to fight, thinking the man had tricked my father and I’d be in trouble, but it was useless. When the man left the room, they spoke like friends, and that confused me even more. My mother came to take care of me and when my father came in, I got in trouble for crying, and for fighting the man. I was told I’d better obey next time. The next time was only a few weeks later, but it was a different man. We also had a new television, but I didn’t understand what was going on then.

There were others, and sometimes they wanted to do things I’d never done before and a few of them terrified me. My mother would protest after seeing the bruises and marks, but she just got hit for defiance. The only time my father got angry at one of these men was when a pair of them came over at the same time, and one of them tried to touch my mother. Years later, I realized that she was the one he wouldn’t share with anybody, but the rules were different for me. I tried to lie to myself, any lie that came along, that it didn’t mean he didn’t care.

Indoctrinated from a child to never tell and that other people would only harm me, I never told, and I never ran away. My home life was just how the world was, and all little children owed sex to their parents. If I ran away, my father said he would punish my mother, and some other man would just do the same things to me. Once or twice, away from home, and once when I was in a hospital for a time, that happened just like he said, so I believed it all. I began to believe my father was actually some sort of protector, and I never knew that some people would have helped me, and would never have hurt me. That was fantasy to me, and it didn’t exist in my world.

I overheard a handful of conversations downstairs when I was twelve that finally made me realize my father was being paid money, a lot of it, so that these men could do what they wanted. He had sought them out, discovered their secrets, and provided a safe way for them to experience what they wanted, without fear of being caught. I knew the word for what he had turned me into, and it made me feel devastated and used, made me feel dirty. I wanted to die, but I didn’t know how.

I began to disobey and the beatings got worse. Sometimes I tried to provoke my father into killing me, but he always stopped. He was also angry because I was growing up, and I slowly understood that the men didn’t want a man, they wanted a little boy. My father found ways to work around that problem by adding a few new faces to his now organized group of “clients”, and my life did not improve. Most of that time, writing poetry was my only escape. It became the only place I could admit to myself that my life was wrong. Poetry was also the only thing that could convince me that I was human at all.

I escaped my abusive home at the age of nineteen and lived homeless for a time. I ended up doing the only thing I knew in order to eat, or to buy the drugs I’d gotten hooked on to cope with the abuse – I took money for sex. I had no sense of self, let alone any self-worth, and deep down, I was just hoping somebody would kill me. I almost committed suicide many times as a boy, teen, and young man; but something inside me didn’t want to die. I didn’t know how to live, but I knew I wanted something better, a way out. Eventually, I stopped hustling and became a dancer. When I met the beginnings of my current loving and supportive family, they talked me into stopping all of these nightlife pursuits and letting them take care of me. I had always been a rapid cycle bipolar since childhood, but living on the streets and my life of abuse had given me PTSD and a growing list of debilitating phobias. Recurring panic attacks in public introduced me to a few nights in jail here and there, and I slowly started to see that if I wanted to save my own life, I would have to let the people who loved me take me in and try to help. My new family got me more stable than I’ve ever been, got me into therapy and on medication for bipolar and anxiety, all of which help. Yet the best thing in my life is my new family, these people who love and care for me. Every day, they show me that I’m worthy of love, and work to convince me that I’m stronger than I think I am. They also put up with my reclusive nature and the rules I’ve created for myself so that I can feel safe, limiting how much I interact with the world and others.

My home situation is not a typical one. The abuse left me very mixed up regarding orientation, and I identify now as a bisexual, though I never had the simple ability to discover for myself what I am. I have adopted a gay couple as my new parents, because they saved my life. I have a boyfriend I’ve loved since high school and a girlfriend who was a single mother when we met years ago. She and I have four children. My children have never known abuse of any kind, except that they are aware on a level they can handle that their father was abused. Because of my medical and mental issues, they have to be aware of some things, but we don’t tell them details. The Penn State child sexual abuse case broke, and my oldest, at nine, asked me if that was like what happened to me. I told her it was similar, and that those boys would need a lot of help to heal. We also assure our children that they can tell us anything, and if anybody ever makes them uncomfortable, they are to tell us right away and we’ll stop it.

Many people don’t want to look at these things, but Penn State’s situation and the Catholic Church cases, among others, have made them look, more and more. Some pedophiles are solitary, barricaded by lies and excuses; but others run in packs. When I learned about a national group called NAMBLA, the North American Man-Boy Love Association, a group that believes child rape is a “consensual relationship”, I had to be sick. It brought up too many terrible, ugly memories of my father’s friends and their “private club”.

As an adult in my thirties now, I’ve tried to understand my abuse by understanding the sort of people my father gathered to him. They came from all walks of life and most of them were influential in their communities. They were rich businessmen, professionals in different areas, and two of them were doctors. One of those men put me on Zoloft when I was nine, and now I’ve found studies that show that may be a cause of turning bipolar into rapid cycling, one of the biggest handicaps of my life. I never knew their names; as a child I invented names for them. When I became an older teen, they began to drift away. I can only assume they found other children to target, since these people don’t want to stop.

Some people have asked me how I can talk about my abuse, or why I do. Silence kills. Illusions enslave. I have the support of a loving family now and they have helped me to be strong enough to try to help others. There are those who need to pull their heads out of the sand and help children around them who are being abused. There are children who need to know they can tell and ask for help. There are also survivors who never told a soul, and their secrets have almost destroyed their adult lives.

We must break the silence, and shatter the illusions. We must help child victims and adult survivors. We must prevent and break the ugly cycle of abuse. If I don’t speak out, having fought for the strength to be able to do so, then my story can’t help anybody else in pain, and it can’t help educate those who need to understand in order to choose to help.

My voice was shattered, but I can still reach others, and I have made the choice to help in the way that I am able. If my words can help even one other person or child, the pain and anxiety of reliving my past will be worth it.

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 11/28/2011
For those who have been abused, and those who want to help.

Little Red Shoe Is Blue

Wrote this on a napkin to read it to my son when he was sad because he lost one of his pair of favorite red tennis shoes. A tale about making new friends:

Little Red Shoe Is Blue

There was a little red shoe under a little wooden chair.
The little shoe was always happy until his best friend wasn’t there.
He looked to the left, to the right; he looked up, he looked down
But the little shoe’s friend just couldn’t be found.
Little Red Shoe was sad and said,
“I must find him. Maybe under the bed?”
He started to search with all of his might
but no matter how hard he tried, he could only turn right!
“The bed is left, what can I do?”
Then a small voice said, “Can I look, too?”
The Little Red Shoe saw someone new
it was a another little shoe, but this shoe was blue.
“You were made to turn right, but I turn left,” he said.
With a smile and a nod, they set out for the bed.
Little Red Shoe was amazed he could go
so far, so fast, he didn’t know
but with Little Blue Shoe along for the ride
he could move like he had his old friend at his side.
Together they traveled into the dark under springs
where there were so many disorderly things!
A book, a box, a doll that talked
but no other red shoe, though they walked and walked.
“I had a friend too,” said the Little Blue Shoe.
“Where did he go?” Red asked. “What did he do?”
“He was missing one day,” Blue said with a sigh.
“My friend is lost too,” Red answered, “and I don’t know why.”
The Little Red Shoe puffed out his laces
they had looked and walked in so many places.
At his side was a shoe that just didn’t match
he didn’t even have laces, he closed with a catch
but together they had walked without a thought
though they weren’t finding the shoes they had sought.
The Little Red Shoe stopped walking, his laces all smiles.
“What is it, Red? We have to search for many more miles.”
The Little Red Shoe shook his head and said, “No.”
Red said, “We’ve already gone farther than we needed to go.”
Blue was puzzled. “We have to find a friend, like you said!”
Red laughed. “I did find one. He’s just blue and not red.”
So together they walked back to the wooden chair
and settled down to rest with the other toys there.
The Little Red Shoe wasn’t blue anymore
he had a new Blue friend that he loved even more.

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 9-25-11
For Sky, my son. Remember when you lose a friend, that a new friend might be right beside you.


Long ago
the dust settled
over the long road
in the wake of something
a child could never understand
Bumps in the road
as if they would try
to separate body from mind
Next to dusty little shoes
a small suitcase sits
full of meager yesterdays
as the road stretched
into uncertain tomorrows
At the edge of the world
as the world stopped
a place of unknown shadows
but no welcome was made
Run, boy, run
the driver called
hang on that bell
but don’t look back
What child would obey?
Catch in dry, dusty throat
as the car, the only connection
sped so fast, so far away
A ringing bell has to be answered
Silence laps at the mind
drawn by fear like the hidden moon
a tide to unravel
the strongest of men
but the child is stronger
Dull click of the lock
the door opens
and a new kind of hell begins
Years pile on hopes
until dust covers all
in a white sheet
yet somewhere
under the ghostly folds
hope still learned to breathe
Now at the other end of an era
a man stands
stronger still
than what tried to mold him
or tried to break him
a spirit of kindness
smiles from his eyes
a shining beacon
as his bell laughter
rings out
in the land of the kind
and gentle people
He is not what his past
tried to create
he is what he chose to be
for choice cannot die
as long as hope lives

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 11/23/2011
For Lorne, 87 years and counting; you give me hope. Thank you.


Unmade, escaped
too soon, too late
left alone and weak
undefended living doll
and one by one by one
they come to play
shaking hands
wipe the filth away
Nothing has changed
lay the lie on the rest
only memory is gone
and in the dark
of an empty soul
reasons to remain
run out like sand

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 12/25/1999

Candy Man

It was tiny and smooth
Like me, he said
held still in his fingers
like me
It’s magic, he said
it will take you away
so I believed
Sleep, he said
it’s only a game
you don’t need to know
how to play
It’s a secret, he said
and the bitter taste faded
but the new scars remained

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 11/14/1992

Only Once

I watch them
their words like knives
but only his is sharp
Fear for her spreads
like ice on bare skin
If I could speak
I would beg her
to be silent
can’t look away
can’t let her suffer
The strike echoes
like thunder
but only once
she is lucky

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 1/3/1995


Wind rustles leaves, tears them loose
to fall, afraid
caught by flowers’ embrace

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 11/17/2011
For S.A.H.

Beauty Reminds

Curling deep inside
the slick, sour feeling
the fear that eyes may meet
and turn away
Beauty reminds
haunts, mocks
without a word, a thought
or wincing glance
It is a mirror
that rejects all
unworthy reflections

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 11/16/2011


Caught in a web
helpless pawn
of careless
and casual horror
held by lies
much tighter than rope
breathe and wait
No mercy, no care
flesh bruises
deep within the rose
torn petals
all perfume
all beauty
simply gone
Shut out the sight
try not to hear
but flesh cannot stop
its function
Accept the poison
venom in vein
let it numb the truth
into illusion
all nectar drained
and cut from the web
as shadows draw near
gather shorn threads
and strive
never to weave again

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 12/10/1996


Dirty washroom
crumpled money
sweaty in pocket
city noise outside
rusted lock clicks
terrible silence
Face the mirror again
reflection cracked
reach out and touch
smooth glass
it lies
Gut twist
a feeling so dark
unknown, unuttered
to make the lie
Reach, pull
metal heavy in my hand
warm from worn jeans
Point the dark tunnel
at the ruin
of a man who is not a man
never was
servile animal
vessel of filth
Make it pay
make it tell the truth
squeeze and the glass
the room
the world
Shower of glass
sharp pins in flesh
traitor eye opens to see
tiny avenging hole
in cold gray concrete
as dead inside
as me
Brush away debris
it shines like diamonds
wipe away little rivulets
of scarlet hope
but leave the dirt
it just comes back
The night waits
city maw opened wide
but never wide enough
Rusted lock clicks
breathe, and go

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 12/24/2000

A Door Closes

A door opens
wind fills the hall
swirling patches of lint
like tiny lace clouds
watch them dance
a parquet ballet
In the magic of a child
lint becomes fairies
their big white dresses twirl
a flash of light
bejewels each
A door closes
all magic flees
as the shadow falls
Chubby hand
grasps just one
to save her
from darkness
Thunder, the voice
of an unjust god
call to lessons
that are only pain
cannot cry
or seams may tear
Scratch of stubble
on white smooth sheet
just like a man
who is not a god
it is only the stitches
Still again
Chubby hand opens
but there is only
all magic is dead

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 11/15/2011

Name Them

down below
none of the stones have names
named stones become men
but these have none
name them
Candy Man
ice on glass
one clinks it
another laughs
one two three
one two three
name them
Laughing Man
chair scrape
thump of glass
one stone waits
no sound from the window
but he’s always there
name them
Scissor Man
creak on fourth stair
lots may be drawn
but Father is first

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 6/16/1994

Don’t Walk Away

An Open Letter from a Survivor of Child Sexual Abuse

Sometimes you have to have experienced something to know on a visceral and unquestioning level that it is wrong. Others who haven’t experienced it may never see or understand why it’s not okay to make jokes about it, make light of it, or to dismiss someone in pain because of it.

The shock of that statement is that some of the things that can be listed under it are crimes like bullying, assault and battery, abuse, suicide, and even horrifying  crimes like rape and murder. Those who object to the jokes and slights are often told “It’s just a joke”, or “Lighten up, crybaby.” These things are not a joke; and if they ever happen to you, or somebody you love, they won’t be a joke to you anymore, either.

For a few things, the wrong is not only obvious, it requires no thought to know what you would do if you encountered it. Some of us could even imagine ourselves going  a bit crazy, taking  the law into our own hands in a moment of red-haze blindness that the lawyers call a “crime of passion”. One of those things for most of us (but not all of us, shamefully) is the crime of child rape.

What would you do if you entered the athletics department showers of a prominent university and saw a ten-year-old boy being  anally raped by a grown man? Would you give a damn that the pedophile criminal was a talented assistant coach? As a grown adult, would you quietly slip away, do nothing, leave that boy to be raped and later go tell your father what you saw and wait for him to tell you that you have to call the police? Then, let’s suppose, the higher and higher levels of authority at the university engaged in a cover-up to save, not the child victims, but the reputation of the school.

This is what happened at Penn State University. What did they do? They ousted the pedophile, but didn’t stop him from continuing  to bring young boys to the locker room showers. When it finally blew up in their faces, the school fired their beloved championship winning  coach because he may have known about it and didn’t do enough to stop it. Others were fired too, and when the pedophile finally goes to trial, more may not only lose their jobs, but they may go to prison with him. If a judge and jury find that any of these people are guilty of knowing  about it and not stopping  it, I hope they all go to prison; and if they learn there what it’s like to be anally raped, I probably won’t shed many tears for them.

In Mexico, where the minimum age of consent is TWELVE years old, a ten-year-old girl was repeatedly raped by her step-father until she got pregnant. At age eleven, she has now given birth, because the abortion laws in Mexico are just as screwed up as some of them in a few of our United States are. Will the step-father be arrested and brought to trial for raping  a child? Don’t hold your breath.

If I were that adult male who witnessed a child being  raped by a man in the Penn State showers, I’d have run in there, stopped it, and tried to restrain myself from killing  the sick monster outright. I’d have probably called 911 with my boot on the back of his neck while trying  to tell the child he was safe now. How many of you would do the same?

Don’t get me started on the idiocy that followed when the coach who knew about it was fired. Students starting  a riot to defend a man who didn’t do everything  in his power to prevent more child rapes disgusts me so badly that it has made me physically sick. I’ve been told that the riot wasn’t about defending  a child rapist, but the students were too busy with their riot to explain that to the world, and now Penn State is being  trashed and ridiculed globally as “the university where they are pro-child rape in the name of football championships”. If they want to try to reverse this ugly stigma on their university and student body, many more students, staff, players, etc. need to come forth and make statements that they are horrified at the crimes committed on their campus. As far as their beloved coach is concerned, I’ll wait for a court to decide his fate, as the idiot rioters should have done.

Here’s another example for you:

What would you do if you were an adult and you were checking  the meter at the side of a house when you heard what sounded like a child scream and cry? You can’t resist a peek in a window and you’re shocked to see a man standing  in a bedroom doorway who is watching  another man on a bed anally rape a boy of about eight years old. What would you do? In this case, you have no idea if the people in the house might shoot you dead, but you could at least call 911, right? I hope you would. You might duck out of sight, maybe stand there, frozen, and listen to that boy cry. Hear him beg and scream. What would you do?

I can’t tell you what I would do in this example, because I was that boy. I can tell you that the man didn’t stop, and the man watching  had let him rape his own son. I don’t know what the power company worker did, but I do know two things: he left, and he never called 911. How do I know he was there? I saw him there. I saw him and I thought he would help me. He didn’t.  He just walked away.

I had a mother who also abused me sexually. I had teachers and neighbors who saw bruises, saw my scars, never wondered how I lost sight in my left eye at age sixteen. I was taught since the age of three to never tell. I was told all families were like this, all children owed sex to their parents. By the age of ten, I didn’t even question it anymore. I’d see a boy at school with a broken arm (from falling  out of a tree) and I assumed he had disobeyed his father. There was nobody to tell because they were all too busy bullying  the weird boy, the freak with the ugly scars on his face; the freak who could barely speak because his tongue had been cut with a kitchen knife. Only a few teachers asked how I got my facial scars, my speech impediment; but I was taught to lie. I told them it was a car accident, and having  been given an excuse, a reason to hang their suspicions and fears on, they believed it and never asked again.

No other reality was introduced to me until I had become a wild creature, a child as likely to bite you as look at you. They called me a “discipline case” and now and then they’d suspend me, giving  me more time at home to be abused in. My first friend in junior high who didn’t care how crazy I was and refused to go away, he slowly gained my trust. I wouldn’t tell him my dark secret, but he told me about his life, his loving  family, and it shocked me. It took time to realize I’d been lied to, my whole life. Bullies continued to attack, and I learned to attack them, too. That is something  we all must think about – sometimes those who bully are secretly being  abused and their violent aggression is a form of acting out their pain, waving  a red flag that few see because they only see the attacks on weaker peers. I wonder how many bullies have been asked “How are things at home, is anybody hurting  you?” Just like parents should ask their kids the same thing: “Is anybody hurting  you?” Such a simple thing, yet it seems so hard for some people to do.

I believe I survived because I thought the abuse in my home was how the world was. That sounds strange, but it’s true. Some victims of child sexual abuse have good childhoods until that one monster enters their lives. The shock of that abuse can numb a child, shatter them, until they either can’t see the point of living  anymore, or they manage to survive only to still feel broken, dirty, unclean, destroyed, as adults. A few get the help they need right away, and they are able to grow up and live more normal lives as adult survivors. For me, a boy who didn’t get help until he was grown up, the belief that the abuse was just how the world was probably saved my life; it was “normal”. I never ran away, because my mother would be beaten for it. She never ran away with me because she was abused as a little girl and knew no different life either.

Yet in spite of that, I’ve attempted suicide many times as a child and a teen, and sometimes, also burdened with the mental illness of bipolar, I’ve had suicidal thoughts as an adult. I’m alive today because I got help. I found people to make a loving  and safe (if unconventional) family with. I got professional help from a brilliant therapist, and I’ve been seeing  her almost every Friday for the last eight or so years now. I’ve gathered friends who love and accept me as I am and who help me when I’m overwhelmed by my illness and my past of abuse. These are the things all survivors of abuse of any kind need to stay alive.

As an adult in my present circumstances, I try to have the courage to share my poetry and essays about my abuse in the hope that it might help another survivor, inspire somebody being  abused to speak out, or to make others aware of this terrible crime. So many survivors find it so hard to talk about their abuse and others never do and feel that they can’t. The first step to healing  yourself is to tell somebody, anybody, that you are being  abused, or that you were abused as a child. Until you hear yourself speak it out loud, silence is allowed to defeat you, to cage you and maybe destroy you.

Most days I try to be kind, friendly, maybe even attempt to be funny. I like to do this, because I know what suffering  is and I like to help others to cheer up, feel better, if they are having  an awful day. I’m a quirky oddball weirdo, a scarred man who will never see the world quite like others do because of what I’ve survived. My abuse has altered me in many ways, but I’ve never repeated the terrible cycle of abuse. I’m a father of four beautiful children, and none of them will ever be treated as I was. They are my best reason for living  now, my main reason for fighting  to heal myself, for striving  to take that next breath on the worst days. Yet I never forget the abuse I survived, I cannot forget it. I want to live, I struggle to heal, but I cannot forget. I cannot stand idly when I see another being  abused. I cannot walk away. I cannot keep silent.

Child sexual abuse is all around you, whether you choose to see it or not. It could even be in your own home, your school, or in your town. If you know or know of somebody of any age that you suspect might be abused, by a parent, a bully, a spouse, an authority figure… don’t just turn away. If they give a reason for that black eye and it seems suspicious, keep trying  to reach out. Tell somebody. If you are being  abused by any person in any way, tell somebody. Silence is the enemy. The choice to do nothing  is a conscious choice, and it can be a contagious disease; one that destroys and sometimes ends lives.

Don’t be the one that just walks away. Please don’t.

~ ~ ~

© W.R.R. 11/11/2011
For all those who suffer or have survived abuse, and for the people who suffer because they love them.


Time lies when it says it heals
does it not?
Base, vile… it creeps on
sowing seeds
of discontent
hidden in chafe
of fading memory
I remember the touch
soft, exploratory
of the blade
over my body
but response is polluted
lost in the white noise
that electrifies
and equally stills
the cascade of my thoughts
They are bright
and dark
sharp like knives
that know
ah how well they know
the taste of me
Time, cruel beast
only watches
the stilling struggles
of the overwhelmed
So what bite of words
might I give
as the unmarred
speak of healing time?
No words
for they founder
impotent, wounded
stuttering into the void
lost in what is left
what little there may ever be
left of me.


© W.R.R. 7/2/2011


I have never seen the ocean
never stood upon its shore
yet if I could
I know I would
hear other than its ancient roar
As waves draw back
each set to curl
your voice would sound
in every round
each rushing spray and swirl
You are my sea
my ship, my embracing sand
touch each hollow
all tides I follow
to set my heart on saving land
Seabirds shall never join
my wind-torn echoing cry
by tempest tossed
too deep, too lost
for I am you, as you are I


© W.R.R. 11/4/2011
For Saint Vitus, my beloved.