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Crumpled Truth

Sometimes, my tender library

Serves as a psychologist’s clinic

Leaving an ever shocking gift:

Wastepaper basket with crumpled tissues

Like a nest brimming with sad eggs

My sanctuary anointed

With an offering of tears

Wet pain left to dry

Wordless truth.

The tissues absorb the stories

When they are refined

Into impersonal secretions

That have been flowing

Since the beginning of time.

Yet the pain is absorbed By a world that can take it And there is our comfort

And our transformation

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