Sleeve. Slashed.

in these late-night revelations
after the children have gone to bed
before the flames have filtered my words,
the gut-wrenching pain of every.
last.
sacrificial.
moment.

is as bright as an impromptu bonfire
on a Friday night
so far from the heart of darkness
that you’d squint your life trying to find.

and you’ll wear that superficial smile on your sleeve,
and bury in ashes the truth,
and wish to a god you don’t believe in
that the Sabbath would save you.

but there is no savior.
there is no Sabbath.
there is only the fire,
the Friday night lights,
the hope.

the hope hidden in darkness
with the caucaphony of sound
that penetrates every last heartbeat
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