Red rash burning on the Cheek; marked by pain like
A leper, an adulteress, an
Outcast. Walking in the
Shadows, lurking in lament.
Don’t go there. Don’t ferret
Out the splinter, the blackened
Nail, the bitten tongue.
Don’t go there. Don’t discover
The corpse, tenderly resting
In the blushing water. Better
embrace the confusion, the mistruth.
The truth is best buried
in loamy soil beneath
the rosary vine.
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