Sunday morning poetry. Church; my words, spoken to me, shared lovingly to you. Second chance to make it right.

Which rope
survives the battle?

Tethered hope, frayed peace, weathered love.
Coiling round,
tightening breath,
stretching thin.
Relinquished joy
laying bare.

Powerful solitude pursuing thoughts,
reaching wordless masses.
This writing life; communal,
selfless feeding,
fed by others,
others fed by us.

Conviction battling doubt.


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