We are breaking into pieces,
without Soul’s backbone,
to hold it all together.
Crumbling into sad, small bits
of almost being, where we
can no longer identify the
shape of who we are, let
alone who we should be in
this pockmarked form of
creation without Self.
Where Spirit weeps dark
tears, at the soft mound of
shredded becoming and we
wait, to touch, the outstretched
hand of love which is forever
held in offering to firm Spirit,
as eternal connectedness.
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