the abyss that was bridged
with the exhausted shaky fingers
holding the world together
the seam that was stitched
with the red and white threads of the soul
still gnarled and uneven
but becoming living flesh
scar tissue with its microscopic rivulets
its minute mountains and valleys
reflecting the rough terrains
the rough waters traversed
on life's river
springing now into new
gnarled
but oh so supple flesh
—Lorena
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