I had a myth I followed for awhile
the nettle weaving muted tongue
to save my brothers from the spell of
once upon turned sour that turned them into
swans upon the hour in doomed perpetual flight
with barely a pinpoint haven to alight on
thus my hands, my heart were scarred
and all my dreams marred with their infiinite cries for release
who released not me.
sometimes the road runs out and there's no more walking then
when all is water
save with Christ's hand
over the innundated land we used to know so well.
mary angela douglas 3 march 2020
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