I would like to think it won’t hurt, nearly as much as it might do.
But that’s Nature, taking hold.
In essence, no matter how small, it ruptures and permeates the mould.
On the most clear days, I hold down the key of love, and i say,
“this is permanent,
this is yours,
this is what will heal you,
like it or not.”
But, ah, still seemingly still alone, no different as ever, i commit the crimes i detest to see in others.
Do i doubt?
Do i go gullibly blind when i feign, and box shadows?
Have i ever made something that grows,
Before it dies?
X
The Humble Rock Dove 