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I Am Santo

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Words fail. But that’s what they always do. A sharp inadequacy, a demonstrated shortcoming where we can stand -long in light and hopeful – and still come up short. Where moments are pregnant with the impending birth of truth and we fumble, spilling stammered phrases that never quite capture – elusive butterflies of emotion set half wing on the wind of our need. “I’m sorry.” What is that but a failure of articulation? A damning of language itself! It captures none of the heart rending hurt nor the peel of the blackened Hell that clings to every regret. I’m sorry? It’s being equipped with a blanket in a hurricane, seeking safety and warmth under the most fragile of utterances. Failing, we stand exposed in hot light, our length of anguish thicker than the pitch of endless night, of space and the shadow of a quark hiding deep within every molecule of our shattered souls. But we are energy, and we are the failure of science, of literature and of God if all we know is how to blindly cough misgivings and believe they’re enough. I’m sorry. Fuck those obtuse and blank claims, they mean nothing to the soul hurt, the crying, the betrayed. They’re candy served to the starving, carrying no nourishment and healing no hunger. No end in sight for the pain, our shadows extend into the far reaches of understanding and beg to dissipate in the forgiveness of morning. Yet there’s always the night waiting first, where no words can warm against the cold. #shadow #gravel #afternoon #rocks #pebbles #legs #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at The Failure of Words)

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