all of humandom is a tangled mane
all burrs and matted  intractable.  any single knot would pick right out  if we could find the ends
and hold on
but we can’t:
the ends are thousands of other knots away.

nevertheless we try
and we try
and the tangle grows 
so even the simplest start
way down by a shoulder blade 
enmeshes us more. 

is it any wonder that some people
given the power
reach for the knife?
that the best of us
watching this blood-soaked knife draw near
try only halfheartedly to stop it
limp wrist outstretched
while a guilty thrill whispers: “change”?

after a lifetime of filthy knots
why not cut just to see
what’s underneath.