I collect myself and all my possessions, worn
and piled up beneath the light of the ragged
waning moon. Too late says the night, it’s
too late. Too many calamities to count. A
summoning will not suffice. Too few doors stretch
open. Too many openings shrink closed. To
the weight of the world I say:
Give me hope for a reprieve. Mercy. I’m
in need of unburdening. Forgiveness. To be free.
A golden shovel poem for the W3 prompt, using this line from David’s prompt poem:
Worn ragged, it’s a stretch to say I’m free.