It is a field of thorns,
the land of no man which lies between us:
solemn,
grieving a trust too fragile to begin with.
Must we rush across it
hand in hand?
…hoping that act would be akin
to walking over a grave
covered over with hot coals?
…surprised that faith still counts
as we knock on that grave’s door,
request answers amid a generation
submerged in loneliness?
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The Amateur's Quill 