How does one forgive?
Is it overlook,
Or make an excuse,
Or level the field?
The blade of my case is sharp,
Forged with the folly of my brother’s heart,
And it hungers to drink the dying gasps of his soul.
Forgiveness does not come light,
Or it comes not at all.
To let you go,
For your wrong,
I drag the blade across my own hand,
And charge every drop,
To him who did not have to bleed for me.
(I wrote this poem a while ago in response to a poem I heard a woman recite at an open mike. She seemed to be filled with a lot of anger at the person she had written her poem to so I wanted to respond to her with counsel on how to forgive.)