Lama Sabacthani

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Silence makes for quiet keeps in forests of a letter written out on curves of stone.

Sunday said the calm was now before a raging storm gripped the peace with fists to crush and bury where darkness feasts and seeds don’t grow.

They slept in shades of white and clear trimmed up in shapely pieces for a grandeur display of fleurs and flora catching magic by their stems to squish the worms crawling all about their toes.

Sand fell down from the hourglass on a printed board to start and stop the players taking full hold of their moment, sending it by in its swing dancing days where the soldiers drink and the ladies paint their lips dark to attract something missing.

The windows be buzzing off the milk we shed on rocket rights and the oils we pour on leaves and feet to cleanse and soothe, rinse and repeat.

He did it here.

By the dust of the ground his knees fell and he scrubbed the dirt off the skin with his hands, adding the scars and the blood to his arms and the ill humor on his back just because he can and wills it into being.

He can take it.

He can feel it and bear it by the base of his heart.
He can sweat off the drudge and bleed out the pain.

He can thrive on silence.
It grows on him like vines and makes camp o’er his shoulders and ‘neath his stature.

Arms out, legs together, head held up at the sky crying by and by to a Father who finishes all he has set out to complete.

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