Handmade Coward


I am a handmade coward not fighting hard enough.

Not loving enough.

A slow setting sun…fanciful and whimsical.

My wrists…withered branches.

My dignity, a bad dream pretending to set things right.

In the bosom of a heavy load, how do the complacent go on?

Earth tumbles below and heaven cries from above.

I turn back toward home…sadness to be shared with love.

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