by Amy Reynolds

Amid the sickness of the world, I spoke

my longing. Not wishing to complicate,

not refusing to take the long walk

that lessened the distance. I’d questioned fate

long enough by that time. Gave into it,

longing burns the guilt oil phospherescent,

pretty cuts in the night. Feet finding glass,

I wanted to map the road Damascus

from another place to find redemption.

Every time you seek my sense about us,

I recall the rocks where our path began.

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