Grieving a Pleasant Illusion

Grieving a pleasant illusion,
Absolution is a gift from
to the restless heart.
A boar that rolls in the dirt to dislodge
Arrows from her chest.

What if
It’s not your fault?
Dissolving the past, gathering my
Frozen shattered dissociation into the
Furnace of whatever,
I’m stepping forward into the naked
Aimless nothingness of a joy
so pure,
I forgot it when I learned
to speak my age
on commend.

To survive, I had to blame
Crooked nails and hedgehogs,
the closer we get,
the more
it hurts.

Beyond the jagged edges of suffering,
Free from the hunger that knows no satisfaction,
I can admit that the world shattered me into a
When you’re ready to make your brokenness your
that sacred garden of tomorrow, the
Refuge of the spirit of the truth,
will welcome you
not until you accept that
it was not your fault
but it is
your Responsibility.

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