Does it feel like a weight off your shoulders? When you placed your heart on the scale, How did it feel to see it become the feather itself So light you could see it floating in the air? The sign of a life well-loved: To become that love itself, The purity of which that could never spoil, Self-sustaining, regenerating No matter the cuts it receives Like hands reaching into a bush Only to pull out the rose with no thorns. Isn’t it obvious? I would toil for you. -k.r.r.
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