The Wrong Gift

The second half I hoped to
gain is now more struggling,
and the shock settles
cold in my arms  - the given gift
insanity not wide green meads
of water and balm.  I must
struggle on, and heft the
pack I thought was
down and left there, unneeded,
unsound  on the last step, not
fit for carrying through. How
wrong I was to so believe
success was on  a golden plate
all mine to grin and sorrow
stowed in a place there is no
looking in. How shamed  I am by
voice and chasm, the terrible rend
of being from being, its
ragged bloody edges hang
cackling, that my innocuous
glue cannot mend.
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