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I’ve seen it.
In the distance it was there, ephemeral.
Behind the dumpster on 17th street
Where Kitty was found last week,
Beaten, dead.
Perhaps it had come to her, but too late.
Or maybe she’d found it and left a little behind
For me, for us,
Those that live on the edges of darkness
And struggle to survive.
Those that can’t get it on our own.
What is peace for one like me?
Elusive.
I’ve heard it.
In the alleys it was there, whispering.
Smothered by the curses of prostitutes
Who seem so much like me,
Hurting, weak.
Perhaps it had come to them, but too fleeting.
Or maybe, skeptical, they’d pushed it away
From me, from us,
Those that doubt on the edges of darkness
And struggle to understand.
Those who can’t get it on our own.
What is peace for one like me?
A dream.
I’ve felt it.
Near the altar it was there, soothing.
At the foot of a cross battered and warn
Where bitter tears spilled unashamed.
Guilt, indignity.
Perhaps it had come to me, after too long.
Or maybe it had been there all the while
For me, for us,
Those that search on the edges of darkness
And struggle to believe,
Waiting for us to kneel and accept it.
What is peace for one like me?
A promise.
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