if this dirt that graces my feet
is what separates my future grave from the gates
where angel whispers guard my mother
despite the silence met
the scars left by my journey so far
the graceful passage under the gates must be worthwhile
I'll imagine I would grow indifferent to the horizon
from mighty above, where there is no more struggle
after all, I suppose I would still hold a grudge
the undertow of what came to pass
like a river that swamps my brethren
and it is compassion that holds me to the ground
self hatred is intoxicating like mulled wine
these seeded chains became familiar
flowers to my bosom, holes to my potted garden
one I wake up to and I am due return when the slaughter of living smothers me
I cherish the possibility of nurturing new life after the fact
do not deny me L'ord
for that I rather go to hell.
that my friend is too, tough love.
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