This life hollows some into living wells

Their briny waters make comforting broth

Their tears, when well-distilled, taste like talent.

At least, that’s the most common compliment

A platitude for the woe-filled and wroth

Told their anguish is why their art excels.

Yet in truth, the whys of torment confound

Sorrow ebbs, flows, crests in relentless waves

With nary a reason we can divine.

We will there be intelligent design

Search for proof we’re not random chance’s slaves

Try to make of our pain something profound.

Hence, as Existence picks whom she’ll first strike

I’ll sometimes tell myself she’s a laundress

Beating stains on washboards and river rocks.

In this way, I’ll perceive people as frocks

When I must prescribe meaning to distress

I choose to think souls and cloth cleanse alike.

Since times primeval, the wash has been rough

As few could afford to be garbed in sheers

Must less enjoy the luxuries of lace.

So, when Laundress comes for the human race

Promising we’ll be clean through force of tears

I get it: harsh scrubbing was once enough.

When came time to scour the Earth, the dirt

Would remove itself after suffering

But here I exist, a delicate gown.

I see Laundress look upon me and frown

The blows she means to be purifying

Would tear my spirit, leave me bare and hurt.

The gossamer strands of my sanity are taut

Lest they snap, a new way to launder must be sought.