My Overgrown Own

Pain, suffering, woe, whatever.
I’ve been the doubtful dealer,
and the catcher’s mitt.
Receiver and conciever.
For, in my younger fears,
I flailed with shears
to trim their branches back,
and manage the little left
of loving limbs I’d cleft.
In turn,
I have cut my overgrown own without question.
On a quest
for what we need to believe is destined.
Freeing only what’s left
of the bonsai’s best intentions.