A Double Metaphor

You gripe about things with little sustenance

Still, your sustaining of the matter keeps that very thing alive

Can’t you see you are the one inflicting the wounds?

Sore and gaping?

Still you dare not to look at it

Because then you would have to treat those wounds

How could the inflictor double as a healer

I wonder

However I am not absolved

I am not better than anyone

I sit lying in hospice

Awaiting the day I can be released

Will it rest on my shoulders to be the one

Or will the wounds mend themselves and cease to be

Pardon me

I walk through a meadow with thick lush grass but a thunderstorm strikes

And the rain is too much to bare

I look for cover but there is none

To where will I hide then?

No.

There is nowhere.

I continue as it should be