Woman, you pierce me,
with your knitting needles,
of contradiction ,
I have become a grief stained,
papyrus sheet, tear washed,
Ancient, old, worn,
weathered by, your brilliance,
There is no succor that,
can heal my proffered soul,
The foundation of creation
has weakened under,
the weight of your love,
That is a burden,
you have chained,
upon my back, my heart,
I will not laugh,
at your choices,
because I am one of them,
How telling is the reflection,
in your fun house mirrors,
The fractured, shattered,
splinters of its glass,
your conscience,
I would want to help you mend,
your broken pieces together,
But, like Humpty Dumpty,
the evil in you can never,
ever, be put together again.
©2015, Donald Harbour
Post Script: My darlin’ wife Luscious wanted everyone to know this was not about her (or else), it is an observation of relationships gone awry. ~ Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 
Strong lines and vigorous language indeed, Don. But your wife need not have worried: we know that poetry is not necessarily autobiographical. There’s imagination at work! Like in these lines.
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Thanks John, as poets you and I know that writing is not necessarily literal, my lovely wife does not write poetry, she critiques.
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