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An Imperfect Life poetry by Fr. Harold Macdonald |
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Ravages
The body crumbles in surprising spots where uninvited time has supped too well; the crutches, dragging foot, your secrets tell; your past too long, your future likely not. You notice not the shrinking of your scape Yet walk a fraction of your former route. More sleeping in the sun, but less the fruit. Soon artificial grass will gravely drape, sans smiles, sans arms, sans tears, sans hugs, sans kiss then unaccustomed prayer, the dragging hymn, the eulogy, the noble her or him, “Could such a greatness be reduced to this?” When all is said that’s scrupulously kind the rush begins for what you’ve left behind.
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