Thursday, September 20, 2018

20180920.0430

I’ve done the bit in which I try again,
Repeating what I’ve done with no clear end,
And it has done me little good. But when
I left off doing, I felt no ease of heart;
I felt compelled to play the martyr’s part,
And soon enough, I tried, again, to start
To do as I had done before. But I
Did find no greater peace of heart thereby,
But fared the worse for being now less spry,
And so more hurt, and slower, too, to heal,
And slower to ignore how I do feel
When treated as if what I’ve done’s not real.
But Stupid God has ordered it be so,
And so it is in every place I go.

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