Miasma

There was a moment when he fell right through,
The miasmic mess of the mud pie lies
That you had fed him from a tiny child;
When he let them go and knew he saw truth.

As he slipped on down toward the bottom
And sank further into the bloody hurt;
To the cuts and bruises amid the dirt,
Overcome by stench of something rotten.


The damage caused by the sticks and the stones
Propped open his eyes and pierced his ears;
Lifted the memories up through the years
To lay heavily on his mended bones.


Yet he prays each day as he holds your hand
For the strength to finally understand.

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