At noon I forgave
that which in morning
I could not, so eager
to stoke the fire of offended victim.
If you gaze deep within
by petty hurts, ask yourself:
does this matter?
I waited for death to decide.
I faced the pine box.
The weather turned around me
autumn prevailed, chill licked my flesh.
Life’s lesson curled its finger.
Clinging to grudges.
Holding harms, giving them power.
Does this help?
I am ashamed to understand myself,
perpetuating trivial rancor for no sake at all.
Self-made victims scraping wounds
To make them bleed again.
end 9/24/2016 (3)