That hurt that stops you like a bear trap,

metal teeth cutting to the bone

is really but a raindrop on a hot rock.

It sizzles and then evaporates.


But the mind tells the story

of pain and blood, and a cold winter storm

until the hurt becomes a bomb

dropped on the city of life,

mushroom cloud dissipating all reason and love.


What if, instead, on this longest, darkest night,

in the knowingness of our eternity

we leave our backpack of hurt in the valley

and climb switchbacks with the Beloved.


No weight on our shoulders

we skip up the trail,

and those we meet feel the love

and they too release their load.


Now the sun shines boldly

and we dance on the mountaintop

holding hands with our true self

in the eternally bright day.

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