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Friday, March 25, 2011

When your cup runneth over, the serviette gets stained

He fills up the gilded cup
enough for a palsied hand
to fumble it. This stumble was
expected, though it wasn’t planned.
It brings low gasps, and he grasps
the gravity of their mood, yet...
Color-drained lips slowly drip
purplish blots of pretend. Blood gets
wiped clean. How about sins? He’d grin
but the snicker can’t sneak clear.
For untold deathless days they’ve prayed,
when the present grows too dear.
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