Charades

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You wear the bark,

but the charade

bites, xylem and

phloem corked with

pseudo-sap. Leaves

wilt, dejected

heralds marking

your soul wormwood,

galled by blighted

moral compass, limbs

sold to do evil

where, rooted to

inferior soil,

your destruction

is imminent.

Life Has Carved Her Callouses

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Life has carved her callouses

upon my tender heart,

my response was toughening

the epidermis part –

so soften me, oh Holy Son,

with springtime’s timely rays,

that roughened edges would not keep

my soul from grasping grace.