The soup of sorrow

Comes in threes…



disappointment, dysfunction, death


those tumultuous potions

that threaten my


to function.

Unleavened dispersions

from heaven

inclined to have

been severed.

Hands extended

for blessings witheld

Only to

be beat back.

Seeming to say

take that

but not this

hitting me brutishly

like clenched fists.

I fall

bruised, battered…


Saturated with sorrow

feeling as if

my tomorrow

cannot be

borrowed, loaned or extended

not unlike a

line of credit.

Digging deep.

Finding peace


that my


this… indebtedness

will be assumed

by a higher power.

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