You almost claimed me!
Is it The Glory of God?
The mercy of Satan?
The misery of both?
I never color in the lines.
I get ink in my palm.
Virtually impossible.
Nothing is to blame for our complications.
This is us, lost, fledgling
to make sense to those we cherish.
You're good.
I'm vulnerable.
You've had a shaky past.
I run from mine, only to share it.
So rest well.
I'm sure you'll be calling when I need my prescription filled.
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