There is nothing artificial

about your smile.

It springs from a silent hollow

where every tear is wrung,

every grievance wailed,

the last thick bitter drop 

of anguish emptied to its pit.

You've heard the final 

echo of receding thunder

from your old story.

Now you have no choice

but to breathe, 

entangling a boundless 

abstraction with threads 

of embodied night

The mystery of presence 

is not for scholars.

It transcends the intellect 

as golden dawn outshines

last evening's candle.

This morning, friend,

there is no darkness

in your smile.

Joy is all  

you have left.

Artist: 'Meditation' by William-Adolph Bougeureau

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