Release the Day

To whom does one owe
A brave face, an iron mask
Of will to live in spite of
Spikes of pain and dread?
Suicide is a coward’s act
In the face of overwhelming
Odds and a life too full
Of empty strangers, one
That no one crying coward
Likely knows or understands.
All the best moralists have
Sodden hearts full of lambs
Blood and willful ignorance.
Denial, the sweet smell
Of another’s burnt offering.
The immolated, examined,
Self-sacrifice of someone
Else dead for your sins.
Have a thought, a care,
Say a whispered prayer
For the hard, hurt feelings
You cannot comprehend.
Grant a peace where even
Angels fear to tread and
God will not, and forgive.

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