The cotton ball is gritty, as if seeking someone’s demise.
Open fields, though endearing, glare at me with only…true lies.
Sign, sign…everywhere a…sign.
Clearly my salvation is where it is meant to be.
Forgiveness…a self portrait
Pain had been pestering me, one week. Than as suddenly as he had appeared. He was just as quickly…gone. Near the very end of the last hour of the seventh day, of my self-imposed misery, I happened upon Pain’s B.F.F., Despair. I asked Despair, “Where did Pain go?”
Despair, sadly stoic, stated, “Pain turned into Hate and left town.”
With disgust and envy in my voice, I begrudgingly said,
“That’s a shame. I hadn’t found the time to forgive him yet!”
Forgiveness, you strange beast.
Looming above, awaiting the feast.
Survivor to trial and tribulation.
Goddess knows of your salvation’s motivation.
Sometimes a different sort of anger precedes and proceeds me.
A branch begotten by the tree.
That aroma, unmasked.
Black licorice in a rusted flask.
Amending or amends.
Pretending or amen.
“Why do I procrastinate over the act of forgiveness. When I should be jumping in to it with eyes closed. As though it were a clear mountain stream on a humid summer day.
‘Oh, to be granted amnesty by the hater who once had been hated…the judge who once was judged!’
by David Guerrieri
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