I have given up on the idea of becoming enlightened
By some trick of the mind, meditating,
floating over your favourite meadow.
Ideas written by supposed enlightened minds
don’t work for me.
I resign myself to the fact that my shine is hidden miles away.
I stab another needle into my homemade doll,
Whispering rude things
while telling myself I am entitled to get my own back.
The child in me remembers the fright.
The evil intended by so-called friends.
There can be no reconciliation.
Their denial of wrongdoing falls on deaf ears.
The bile rose in my throat
As I stabbed the last needle into the doll’s image
Let the deed be done…
© Anita Dawes 2021