The Sabbath Past

I work my cheek
Into the grainy ground
And will the noise away
Except a quiet tell,
A sign or slightest tremor
To reveal the healing oil
I seek.

Somewhere
A balm must hide
To calm and close these wounds,
To melt
My bitterness to tenderness,
My rage to gentle understanding,
My hardened scars 
To a forgiving flesh exposed.

I feel I'm getting better,
But I fear 
I'm growing worse,
And so
I seek
Refreshing grease about 
The broken bones
And powdered bloodshed,
The living among the dead.

- 4/18/25

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