This poem is disturbing, actually. I have noticed in male poets the tendency to be cyclically morose. TS Eliot does not write most of his poetry that way; however, this piece is one such.
And it is why in my own hand I wrote, I remember. I am choosing not to be a person who does not appreciate the value of good people, no matter how much they struggle with identity.
We are living in very morose times. We are the solution: Give thanks, love ourselves, love others, work hard, enjoy our lives.
I wish you well on your particular journey, and may you know, oh good person, how your very life is what is part of the Fabric of Universe which is goodness, greatness, within love never failing.