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The Door Opens In



The door opens in, it always has. The entryway is littered with the remnants of the previous slaughter of spirit. I can’t step around the gruesome scene or take my mind away from the sight of the senseless carnage.

Believe what I will. Harvest what, from my hand, is sewn. The eartH is the reason I am here. She sustains me, the only thing that does, as far as I'm likely to ever know in the flesh. Take my hand, Love. Guide my kindness. Nurture my thoughts. Allow me to open my sightless eyes as you carry my feet, lift my eyes, open my hands and walk with goodness, respond with gratitude and with love. It is what I must begin to do. The eartH is patient.

I am gluttonous and cannot see my own reckoning, blind to my ruin, to the reaping of what I alone have sewn. I cannot continue with my coveting of a forged tenure, chaos has found me wanting and guilty of murder.

The door stands open, it always has.


© 2011 by mark prime

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