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