Oh, good sir, please have mercy on my soul
I am so tired you see,
having traveled way and back,
my joints and bones wailing in sorrow.
Please, pity me
Grant me a few pence in time
I ask for little.
Please, do not berate or bite thy thumb at me
Do not ask me to push or press on
My arms are but wobbly straws of wheat
May I just lie here instead
I can’t do another push up.
There is something beautiful, ethereal about the mercy that you give. How your soul seems to open up. The stitches of your heart unravel at the seam of a touch. And your hands become light again, repl
They’d come during the night. Yes, I could see it now: the way they had encircled the well-worn but sturdy building, a few laden with drums of kerosene. The soldiers had arrived with single mind and p
Angered. Attacked. Act. Broken. Battered. Bloated. Cut. Cracked. Cover. The reflection shows what the eyes don’t want to see. The folds. The handles. The fat calves. The jiggly arms. Everyday forever
