Festering intolerance, tumbling memories in sleep becoming incoherence, no time to stop, take stock, of what we’re saying. 

Look up, the shadow, of the cross, but also of the mother, transcending any notion of caring, casting a penumbra, overshadowing the main number.

Abuse, whether obtuse is still abuse, somehow finding an excuse for the recluse of your emotions, in hiding, voiding glad tidings that you are due.

Look up again, the colours bright, casting their holy hue, onto not just the many but also the few, calm comes crystal clear, when you are near.

Copyright John de Gruyther 2020

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