Curing Angst

what soul doesn’t scourge itself
with slow sips of angst & butchered sadness,
gripping life a little white knuckled
fretting moments open
like littlw torn wounds
sitting hunched
eyes slanted to a ‘v’—a
well deserved pain posture
as we live on & on

the morning robins bursting
forth—a million echoes of what sweet short time remains
& then that small slice of dawn as
they hum down to a hush
how lovely, how lovely
as all the world forgets for a moment
the impossibilities of humanity

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