Untitled 4.20.21

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This is not joy. This is relief.

Mixed with, yes, still anger. And an aftertaste of grief.

How many times have too many fathers, kids, and wives

prayed that this cup would pass?

This is not justice. This is a crumb.

And even that I can't taste. Tears spent, spirit numb.

To some? It's tantalizingly sweet progress.

Me?

It leaves choking.

Throat dry.

Me?

I hunger. Dissatisfied.

Thirsty for substance, not appearance.

Begging, starved for sustenance.

x Kaylé D. Barnes