Sufficient unto the day, is
The pain I feel thereof.
I breathe and sigh, and send
A silent small beam of golden light,
Unconditionally loving and accepting
To the part of me that feels so wrong, so wronged, so
Divorced from a sliver of thread-like longing,
Another angel, masquerading as hurtful
And telling me to take all my toys and go home.
And what shall we do with this?
The God that I AM, the vastness of THIS BEING, and
The petty, small, hurtful me, and the
Everything in between thronging longing loving me?
What shall we do?
We shall experience this with blessings aforethought
And slow ourselves to the rhythm of the Universe itself, a sacred