If only your skin could be shed, you could wriggle out and leave your body behind
with all its organs and nerve endings and inner workings and bloody mess, just leave it.
One could step out of illness then, like climbing through a secret window.
One could rise up then, like a perfectly lovely balloon, leaving it all far below,
a heap of ash and ruined mess, and have a birds-eye look around.
But none of this has any truth.
Truth is that for some there is never a time of peace, never a gladness to lift the eyes nor a lightness beneath the heart, no one to keep the fire going. It is the grave task of some
to face constant trial all their days. Their business is not of merriment.
While mirthful smiles sparkle, somewhere bitter lines of worn care deepen. While somewhere the volume of laughter increases, elsewhere a silence settles like bricks. While hands clasp in companionship, other hands are wrung together. And while some skip freely among tended gardens, others kneel, bent low to the ground, pricked by thorns, pleading for Mercy herself to come and claim them.