When pain is lost in plenitude

What is
the true
the beautiful
that rises from
our hurt
It is that
pain is lost
in plenitude
That harm done
is undone
in joyous
tolerance
It is that
all down in
that nether realm
of biliousness
is strained 
on its way up
until its
form conforms
with reconciliation

Unless evil 
is leeched
of its sad force
a clinging memory
permits
no future course




The Slow as Molasses Press