It is hard to breathe life
into the shaded baneness of grays.
My wounds will never kill me.
There is always candlelight before me.
I cannot burn up in it or blow it out.
I cannot directly brighten
its cast on me.
My perceptions limit
the oxygen to burn.
If wick were rage,
all the wax of worry and woes
would be long gone.
A flash burn of essence love
would have come my way.
I am grounded
by these dark swellings.
These are feelings
of muted self-love.
If soot were my gift,
I could smear myself
towards whole.
Accolades from others
becomes my private language
of renunciation.
All others fail me
in this form of honoring.
Their spiritual presence
goes its own way.
I am emotionally imprisoned.
It is solemnly shadowed
yet murky in a friendly way.
For me, pain is also my pledge
and my privilege,
to live it warrior richly forward
in a private humble style.
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