I composed three or four different
versions of another plea, another
beg for his understanding, when
I swore the last was my last.
But here I am, again, trifling
with words, words he will no doubt
expunge, words he will decide
are meaningless, empty compilations
of letters strung together
echoing the hundreds of other
submissions, and I will never know
which words, if any, did he choose
to ingest, swallow whole, accept
them for the desperate pleas they
were, and in some small way
cherish them, for they depicted
a suffering he could not end
but was still compassionate.
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