Pity

There is a sickly hope

growing pale green shoots

in my chest,

pushing past the darkness

with a will to life.

How do you tell

such a little lovely thing

about merciless gravity

and years without rain

where the dusky ground

lies in dusty dragon scales?

I should rip it from

the heavy earth,

pull it to my heart

with its too-white roots

before burning it away.

But pity,

the purest form of pain,

always stays my hand

and merely grows

with it

every longer day.

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