The Sorrow Eaters

The work is unforgiving
In this place apart
We cast-offs, congregants
Castigated freaks
Orderlies in this asylum of peace

Lesser men with greater yen
Attempting to appear larger than they are
Have all found their way here
Ego, it is, the disease that ails the greatest
Of the great, the truly sick
Some powerful
Many rich
But none wise enough
To be caught with their pants down
Their toupees out of place
Or their guarded hearts
Spilling truth or genuine emotion

We try our best to hold them still
They squirm and bite
While we brush their hair
Scorpions in nests of horror
Scurry out and into the patience

Their self-centered thoughts, inflated desires
Gyrate inside them, like a hurricane
Or a dust storm
Or an apocalyptic war
Their guts devoured
From the inside out

We seek to grow them up
Eating their sorrow
Inventing their release
From the prisons within prisons
Which they hallucinate, even in sleep
Now that their families, humanity
And posterity
Have forgotten that they exist