He Bends to Pick the Pieces

He wonders if healing equates forgetting

if happiness is sitting cross-legged with a prism of suns to blind that blotch.

He smiles as the thundering storm settles on his chest

When the pain stops hurting, it sleeps discreet


He wonders if moving is the plateau of the spotless mind

if honour is erasure of the wounded truth.

He smiles to quieten the afflictive howl.

When the pain starts laughing, it conquers defeat

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