that certain pain

on a page, dusty and forgotten,
in a book of yesterday's dreams,
the love and the loss.
a child missing a home
a parent missing the point.
neglect is a fiery stove
which burns and scars
and teaches not to play
with that which hurts.
but pain, that certain pain,
the one that can kill
as easily as it can inspire,
is a drug of the heinous kind.
it's a fiend, feeding off love,
fending off the last pure emotion.
and I find you to be
the most indifferent kind
of suffering saint.