I picked at a scab:
of frivolity and,
everyday lightness;
When it fell off,
underneath,
to my surprise,
was a festering grief.
Deceitful mirth:
I laughed so hard,
that I believed in it,
and forgot myself;
more than half-gone,
wasted by losses,
that have already taken,
the best part of me.
Yet, it may be better to laugh:
When the truth is,
simply an aching sorrow;
which no one wants to bear?
Perhaps I should have left it alone:
becoming a scar;
not quite healing,
yet appearing alive,
convincingly,
until this race is run…
Making it:
finally,
one way,
or another, across the finish line.
~FS
Prayerful Life 