Are we demons
disguised as
instruments of love?
Or vessels of love,
tormed by disappointment?
We beg for love,
while fleeing
challenges of truth.
We find a resting place,
call it a nesting place,
where we assume
we've found comfort,
yet stagnate in fear,
unaware that what we
call comfort,
is really doubt.
Resting places are
stops along the way,
but only to renew
a broken heart
as we discover
the cost of love
is not comfort,
but trust,
to willingly chase away
demons of despair,
and make friends
with disappointment.
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