I have ceased to care for so many things,
especially my beloved.
But this is not about him.
It goes a little further.
Responsibility is the dark word of the hour
When anger meets, the careless shudder
but not so much as I
in seeing the corruption of bliss
While holding up the world, I failed to see
Others, struggling to prop the moon
and falling into the sun.
While I whole-heartedly yearned for my fate
as a way out of maddening freedom,
I wished the yoke on my own shoulders
and happiness for those under my care.
But I am not alone strong enough
Because I have not reached fruition
in all the things which carry the most pressure
and help those I love and need.
I watched the one I protected for so long
fall into knowledge,
gasp and cry during discoveries I couldn't even stop or forsee;
It killed and injured,
and I died and scarred over
and tried to forget when she was gone.
But I know I'll have to go back to our fate.
Ours is not common in getting there,
But it is common in destination.
Realizing the burden of power is bad,
but seeing it severely damage
softness in souls not as hard as yours
manages to snufff out the most well-protected naiveties.
Until now, when I have little love to spread--
it is concentrated in self-healing,
and goes surprisingly short distances
in healing the impetus of sorrow.
Forgive me if I do not care anymore--
my cold heart just got colder
after one of the things it protected, with
a modicum of heat, was destroyed,
And the purpose for drawing breath was
by degrees decreased.
There's nothing I wouldn't give
for a little less maturity.