Misericordia

Misericordia

Daily, I grasp my splin
tered cross between
my dry and cra
cking hands, dragging
it across the ground,
creating a rut
wherever it and I go.
Every single inch
of my hands is dry
and red and rough
from all the pain
and all the work
of picking up
this piece of wood
and carrying on.
Mercy, Father,
Mercy. My hands
are giving way.

The End

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