A poem for Sunday gives the soul relief, letting speak what's deep within. What is there? Not much, the words reveal. Weary body falls to tender soul. I do not know what to say or if I should at all. Silence is salve for all things, though one needs to talk as well. I know little else in this halting verse, a free expression from a soul too thin with going, going.
A bitter wound afflicts my physique. I wonder what would happen but for modern medicine. Greater care to be sure, or not. We do things to get things done and sometimes we are done in. I'm done in, done for a time as my body will heal and re-learn movement in my dominant arm.
Words have morph of meaning and there is stretch in imagining this as a poem. I speak of which I know almost nothing, except, of course, of the pain. This, the philosophers say, is something I know incorrigibly. You can't talk me out of it. "No you don't hurt" would be a ridiculous reply, the true meaning of attempted gas-lighting.
Nothing to say? I speak anyway, sure that easy publishing is no friend of depth and beauty.
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