Poetry

The Fall, 10 (254.)

Every day I ask myself
if I should send you a message.
My fingers hover over the phone,
and I compose a quick missive,
but my brain interjects
to state
“Patience is a virtue.”
My heart nods slow,
agreeing for once,
and says
“If people really wish
to know you, they
will reach out with effort.”
I like this notion.
I’m glad my skull and rib cage agree.
With bones on my side, my flesh
may dance a merry jig,
and sit resplendent
upon a cushion of hope and sheer will.
So it is time:
mutual effort,
for mutual growth.

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