Wouldn’t it be easier

Wouldn’t it be easier if all the sins were buried too; turned to ashes like the flesh that brought to life the quiet crude which should have stayed a fantasy, and even then examined hard; for all the living in that moment, the life of love that you discard.

Wouldn’t it be easier if all my family showed me ‘how’ instead of all how not to be, as if I could simply not allow the drink, the smoke, the wondering eye to rise in me like the meeting of storms, not lessons learned or lines in sand, my soul holds on to prior forms.

Wouldn’t it be easier to treat you as an effigy and not a victim of an ancient thread that binds us not with empathy but mutual disappointment for what we could not overcome; an unattended funeral awaits for those who falter and succumb.