Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Heart rending,

your sorrow, beyond

a poets mean to remedy

splits itself upon my sacrificial stones,

what comfort there is in misery,

itself, multiplies your misery,

they, the harbingers, bring you

only sorrow,

my hands, bound by your love,

cannot move to turn their curse

back upon them,

we instead, underserving,

bear their curse

perhaps, when

patience runs its course,

and resentment, mature,

readies itself for the harvest,

my hands will break their bindings

and those harbingers of sorrow

will reap their karma

in dust and misery