It is a shame. A shame that I cannot yell and shout and lament a person, place or thing.
It is a shame to be sad and angry with nothing to blame, forced to seek a lonely peace.
The kind where a deep sigh replaces rage as I step down and away and then stifle a roar as I turn a new page.
A younger me might’ve played this game.
There is no fault, nor hatred upon myself or a once loved face.
Grace giving muscles will soon be sore.
It is a shame.
And not one thing more.