by Allan Briesmaster
There is a sense you could break totally down
under a swirling cone of stresses, dreads,
distorted panes. – That ill luck might well align
with subtle malice and sudden betrayal of roles
to drag you past the capacity to choose
resistance. Deflate all outward perspective; pour
blank darkness everywhere through paper-thin walls.
No way you can trust yourself now. Not alone.
You comprehend the need, far more than before,
to carry on in the ambit of others’ care.
The hands that held you up and will wave you along
cannot at any time be only your own.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 1