Stripped sheep on coarse wool

Bear with me.

With closed lips I say,

But with unchained hands I speak.

Touch of fire that’s all needed,

To spark off moments of blur and grain.

That you may lean upon choleric years,

Yet still long to live some more.

That maybe hands not so used to touch,

May find a touch of soul.

Enveloped in heartbreak,

Redeemed by what was found,

In silence we feel,

But in touch,

We know.

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