What words pour out from this cleaved breast of mine,
that sow such failed seeds of misfortune.
There is no color in the space between my eyes
that can remove this stain of mortification.
Thus I smother my shame in the resolution of God’s grace, illusive as it may be; Their eyes shine not at the sight of me.
The simple truth paints blindness to grievances past.
Perhaps yet, I shall grow a tree called solitude, and learn to bear its fruit.
It shall not find me going hungry for the sustenance of kind words, I’d rather starve.

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