Hurting
The flower of the soil, not curse but I
am same, not cutting ~ beings lie
The flower of my eye, seems only thy
contention only seeding in reply!
What grows in longing symbolizes try,
befit with wronging, nurtures less imply.
Some grace befits an answer, asking why
love seeds it's error firstly, but to die!
As all man contemplative risk deny
am I thus overstated, nay, but nay!
This truth congratulaltive feels no wry
the heart left but to ponder, finds it's sky ~
still deep inside its hurting . . . frees its cry!
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