The thorn of a dead rose can still pierce.

Like that crucifix spinning in my brain stabbing the underbelly of soft secrets. Shredding

sacred prayers with sharp claws over ancient remorse of confused and foggy deeds.

Like that annoying old song I can’t get out of my head, so it plays on and on…echoing

through shattered glass etched in murals of Monet-plastered shame.

Theirs. Mine. Wicked this rotation of pointy spite~filled heels.

Yet, have you ever been soothed by the humility of a single Butter Cup? Fragile

forgiveness spores the air.

Life and death held hostage in this moment.

Being Present is like that.

It moves on quickly .

Once, I caught it in a mason jar filled with lightning bugs.

My jar was so full of light it took my breath away.

In that moment there was nothing to forgive. No shame to kneel before. No groveling with ground hanging eyes.

That Presence laced with even the thinnest of hope…That moment lifted

by a thousand tiny moths fluttering with a thousand tiny more…

Nothing could penetrate!

Not even the thorn of a dead rose.

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