Sweet Grace


What it comes down to
the more I think about it is
that I need to consume the muse
eat it like a piece of blessed
bread dipped in holy
wine. You see,

for too long now
I have been searching
outside myself, unwilling—
as in lacking the will—
to dig into the soil of this wretched
soul and bring up a fertile root
that can feed where
other nutrients lack thereof.

It is grubby work and I
am often afraid. I never planned
on growing old but then
it happened. I know
this excavation might be

my own grave so let
the hole be good and deep
and filled with sweet things to taste
like clovered honey or
the relief of sudden grace.



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