The tumbler is filled to the top.
The tiniest of next drop,
messes with my calm.
Interrogates the strength of my hope,
shakes my faith,
awakens me weak.
The tumbler hangs on tight,
mighty enough to not spill to the right.
Walls bruising every moment,
A brittle tumbler it might be?
When the pain began to transpire,
the sunshine the birdy came to inquire.
The birdy healed some of my heavy,
both to pain had inspiring capacities…
Then sunshine told me his secret,
“a hole at the bottom,” he said.
Invisible to all animosity,
Colder than cold reality,
And yet constantly breathing,
Within but not with them,
Illuminating me how not to be dying,
How to be dead.


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