It’s a few quiet weeks; so drop the cross.
I’m carefully grieving what I have lost.
I have lost the illusion of a friend.
I have to rethink my trust…once again.
It’s fixable; but broken glass takes time.
Avoid cuts; pick up shards with fabric rhyme.
Shake everything loose so what sticks is meant.
Strip down & then piece by piece heal what’s rent.
New style is born from what’s still in good nick.
Be hard targets for the cruel & the slick.
Always, in hindsight, I find gratitude.
True clarity grants me new altitude.