The long and short of the past

pulls at the soft undercurrent of hard tales

exposing the haunting of our hallways.

We try to separate the pain, dripping the

soap of half-truths onto the dirt, reducing

surface tension; don’t be the first to throw

a stone at sin.


High tide doesn’t blame the shoreline for being

in the way, nor does a valley curse a bridge

for connecting two sides of land.


There’s a story every day.  A spark from the sun,

silence form the moon.  It’s a beginning.



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