He used to move mountains.
And now he can not even move his head from his hands.
He cries regularly.
Are these the same tears from long ago?
They taste the same.
He wondered...
If he took himself to a country church
and raised his hands above his head,
letting the tears flow freely down his gray puffy cheeks
would firery elders still gather round and marvel,
exclaiming quietly amongst themselves,
"What a sensitive soul this young man has."
"Yes, such a soft heart."
Could he yet package his sadness as
good old-fashioned righteousness?
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