The excuses made when a rewrite is due

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The story was never about what comes next, or what is, or whyever did those days not work out like they should. The tale just was as it could be,

A collection of chapters, moments in the rafters looking down on the scene as if the world played out in a single room,

The stage was always thought to be up front. The actors set down the audience they stood for on chairs, rugs, and floor to peer at made up faces with forced emotions

They waited for them to cheer on a couple living out a play from a 50s text–what the man would expect to see in the settler’s home,

They missed the act about the giving and giving from one and all that the taker took–it was just overlooked,

The blank glances, the scatter-minded-nutty professor trying to make a home in a person existing without realizing that her river was nearly dry

It got clogged by some other stories that were never fully told and the one in the dark put the book on the shelf for months nearly twelve and started scribbling in a new one,

But even those words were illegible for the writer, the pleaser trying to say exactly all she had been told and make it hers until a mirror appeared and a foreign face laid eyes in her direction,

Please, use your brain to read what you’ve been given from the attic. It’s a book worn well and dusty, but there’s something in the familiar phrases that will strike you to move your legs

And write down your heart for a Holy man who came all this way to wash your crippled feet and fix them up for a special ground,

His book keeps lips to share a word or two. Let them do all the talking for you.

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