Is There Anything More Misgiving? Poem by Mark Heathcote

Is there anything more misgiving?
Then the lies of the trusted living
Those in guidance of the truth, the facts.
Those, in later years, might as well.
Have felled me with a blunted axe.

How many saplings bleed beforehand waiting for the final blow?
That then later wither from their full goddamn given potential.
How many nights did I have nightmares?

And yet, I was too frightened to come downstairs
And share my pubescent fears.
How many -times were my closest allies the ones
I trod quietest around for fear
I'd make a living breathing sound.

Sometimes prey is in danger most.
When it is in the manager of its home, besides its host.
And now trusting more than it should ever trust.
It's warped kindred isolated bitter roots.

It is in these festering wounds of generations
That loving either of you.
Two shores of equal distance leave me drowning.
It is here I swim to find neither shore nor land ever the same again.

And therefore, Drowning is my first and last and my middle name.
I am an island that refuses to be discovered or washed away.
And love, that is why I am here the same today,
As I was just yesterday.