Roots


It’s the digging that becomes tedious 
Then painful
Exposing nerves 
alive like electrical wires
hot and unpredictable. 

In my quest for authenticity 
I have barely scratched the surface of myself. 

The stark mirror of sobriety 
exposes every whisker and barnacle 
Every threadbare remnant 
of my 
temerity 

And yet 
there is beauty 
in the muck
of remembrance 

Every layer an invitation 
to soften 
Every dark pocket 
transformed 
in the light 

Brought to my knees 
by the power of 
this unearthing
I am humbled 
and raw 

Prayers leave my lips
broken and holy 
made from what is 
left of me












 







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