It is as much a lie
as truth deceives
its giver. How sweet
the blood, the thorn,
a punctured breast,
the trembling hands.
I'm not immune to joy,
I've seen what gives us
pleasure. Confessionals
are filled with dying people
who do so gracefully.
My tongue is not bitter,
because it refuses to sing.
Dearly, I loved the brightness
of roses in the rain before the wind
unclothed, destroyed them, just as
memory & grief following the storm.
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