In nurture do I sleep,
free from all the negatives reaped,
to use against those of opposition,
those whose meek response
does not escalate the war,
never keeping score
or postulating affronts.
We the blame of ingrates,
a displacement of their fears and aches,
that lead them to want to fight,
hurt and cause damage
to nullify their pain,
their sad refrains of harm,
that comforts their disdain.
Yet in sleep they are merely echoes,
like specters they appear
with nothing to offer
but sadness in themselves,
and I in nurture of the angels
let them float away not held,
just lost from truth and light.
The more I let them go,
the less they exist in my world,
and I wish them well in their unhappiness,
too busy in blame and vengeance
they cannot know who they are,
and I cannot afford their presence,
their vile thoughtless deeds.
So in forgiveness they dissipate,
having lost their hold on me,
freedom the seed of my removal,
and quietly I live, in peace,
in happiness and contentment ease
the pain of their affliction,
as in love I find release.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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