Home of the Soul Cookie

Of the divorcé
  on the occasion of what would have been
    his tenth wedding anniversary:

I am a shell,
  hollow,
    walking and talking as if I were a real boy.

Wounds I thought healed are opened anew,
  a feast for the vultures,
    by my spirals of lamentation.

Grief and bitterness and loneliness have taken root
  in the home and hearth of the heart
    where love and joy once dwelt.

I flail about, discordant,
  a pilgrim in search of an acceptance
    I won’t even grant myself.

And of she who once loved me
  (or loved me not, I haven’t the petals to tell)
    I wonder what has become.

With breaths alternating twixt sighs and sobs,
  laughter and curses, empathy and bile,
    I madly dance upon the razor edge of the three-fold law.

My psychosis, my mental Brigadoon,
  is that this is all just fodder for the middle act,
    the turning point that’ll drive it all to resolution.

But there’s no snappy closing, no convenient wrap-up,
  no music to take us out to commercial:
    just “stay tuned for the ongoing story.”