I have given up on the idea of becoming enlightened

By some trick of the mind, meditating,

floating over your favourite meadow.

Ideas written by supposed enlightened minds

don’t work for me.

I resign myself to the fact that my shine is hidden miles away.

I stab another needle into my homemade doll,

Whispering rude things

while telling myself I am entitled to get my own back.

The child in me remembers the fright.

The evil intended by so-called friends.

There can be no reconciliation.

Their denial of wrongdoing falls on deaf ears.

The bile rose in my throat

As I stabbed the last needle into the doll’s image

Let the deed be done…

© Anita Dawes 2021