Cloak of Sorrows

About people wed to their troubles

Like a robe around you darkens your eyes and friendly smiles,
like reptilian skins you've itched and split but failed to shed,
like a crowd of unborn babes you thought you ought to have
are these sorrows and injustices gathered round you with their stares
refusing to leave unless they know how could they not mar you so?
And until you give answer, they'll spoil your appetite 
for words and songs of faith and joy at other's delight.

Thus pain keeps you trapped inside and pain becomes the armor without
and pain becomes the soothing balm that lessens the itch of wanting out.
Pain feels more real than any delight; and it whispers vain hopes in your ears at night,
"If you suffer the world's sorrows, then the world will suffer for you its slights."
When, oh when will sorrow find its place: that distasteful herb at the passover feast?
When, oh when will grief no longer act as the guiding signpost in your path?
When, oh, when will you no longer define yourself by only half of his designs?

When? I don't know, 
but someday your shell will fall and your freed lungs will fill
with the songs your heart has been yearning to trill.
Unrealized wishes shall dissipate at that dawn
that shows every contour of what lurked in the dark.
And unrobed, you'll not flinch at blows aimed at you
when you cease expecting from others what they cannot do.
Finally then, love will saturate you all throughout
and love will shed the skin for the soul to get out.