Exactly what is
there is a thorn
deeply rooted,

deeply buried.

Of endless secrets,
of endless histories,

when the minds of
the faithful are
fed by the wrong

when the hands toil
for the wrong master,

when the fire becomes
the center that destroys,
that separates.

Which now remains:
a wound that
still sores.

Let the hearts cry,
let the souls seek,

let myself contemplate
until I am consumed by
the power that heals.




About chester maynes

poet, and a lover of music and books.
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