They congeal slowly.

The original sin

Gets buried under layers of

Consequent cold shoulders

And dirty looks

Until we’re left holding onto something

That’s difficult to define.

Its unfortunate that even

When we are being reminded daily

Of the fragility of the human condition

We still hold onto grudges

As though they were prized possessions.

And though we know

That the cup holds no refreshment

We still drink the tepid waters

Of resentment down to the dregs.

It is unfortunate how our hearts can prefer

A misery we can control

Than a freedom that only be found

From letting things go.


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