In Sickness and Help

One story ill valued by hell or health, let alone the holier than self. Still fewer, few’re fast flame, little lights spark hope and not blame, open chests for few nights blessed or few days mess or few months rest or few years, more or less. Hoarding hope in hovels disheveled, we heal in quiet, quelling our devils.

I speak in tongues of men and angels, fluent, never demon ease. I trade and talk trauma, too truently. She that is forgiven much, loveth much. I’ll help men bury bodies, but one crime I can’t abide, those thinking they’re better than We. I was never good and until heaven, We’ll never be. I am worse than most play with or pay to see. So we damned best hustle unclothed to the Throne, huddled up close for hope, heat and mercy.

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