They congeal slowly.
The original sin
Gets buried under layers of
Consequent cold shoulders
And dirty looks
Until we’re left holding onto something
That’s difficult to define.
Its unfortunate that even
When we are being reminded daily
Of the fragility of the human condition
We still hold onto grudges
As though they were prized possessions.
And though we know
That the cup holds no refreshment
We still drink the tepid waters
Of resentment down to the dregs.
It is unfortunate how our hearts can prefer
A misery we can control
Than a freedom that only be found
From letting things go.