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We cup our hands to catch the sunlight,
press its warmth against our wounds;
between our now and our tomorrow,
moisture-laden shadows wait.
Our scuffmarks show our hesitation --
surely there's another route?
We must go on. We grope for balance,
skirt the outer edge of hell.
We hear a trailing chant of childhood
snagged on branches, sparse and frail;
"I think I can" our only option
once the darkness settles in.
We'll chase the night to its conclusion,
wait for finger-strokes of dawn
to loosen pain's relentless hunger,
smooth our anguish-coated scars.
03/30/02
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