Somewhere within the repetitious rhymes
of psalms is where my mind is. My warm heart
makes music now the same as in my youth,
although I'm not much different. Here I am
repeating things again. I hope you can forgive
me for the ways I fuss and moan and weep
within a verse. O reader hear the sadness
within all happiness, know that the trials
we face are not just static things, they become
living narratives. A wrath of God that
is somehow merciful, my awful self
is somehow also awesome. Yet vanity
assails my writing, obscures the pure knowledge
whirling about me, makes it seem a dream.
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