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Thursday, 2 October 2014

Kleenex in the Toilet

The Kleenex has no loyalty.
We cling to our existence;
the Kleenex crosses over,
entering the foreign element
without hesitation,
never looking back.
Exactly how grace might walk
into its disintegration.

But suppose it were more like
a soldier dragged down in the mud,
stained by unwillingness?
There it goes,
sucked into the muck by its own porousness,
its frank defencelessness
against the infiltrating waters
that capture it from within.
Plunged and pressing deep,
a dry tip reaches up
like a hand –
and the eager weight of the stagnant pool
drags it under,
and I fear for my soul.