anger be gone

The morning voices linger linger linger long, and I pray for them to dissipate, anticipating final words that crack in the shadows.

Where is the light at the end of the tunnel?

Instead of my meander on a pathway of laughter and song, there is this other throng, yelps of accusations that threaten to implode upon each other as they create distance.
Aching resistance.

In this instance I need silence. And so I remember the scent of burning sage that bathes my weary ears and eyes.

No more rage.

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