toward morning

4:04am – the hour of Angels

Stories of devils and children trapped within them

half of their bodies wrapped in stone

trolled into the mountain are they

their faces and hands white as  snow

and as cold as

It is familiar in there

safe in the grip of old tired times

with fangs of foul breath

still. you live there

you think and the stoneheld body aches

into something called morning

and the calm heart says

I will not value what is valueless, for what is valuable belongs to me

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Please note that nothing written here is intended as medical advice. Readers who think that they need help with a physical or psychological condition are advised to seek a qualified opinion.

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