Twelve days, before Christmas

Broad sorrow: winter’s cold fell on the land; open fields, no shelter.
My fingers all crooked with fear; acid stress running through veins;
Muscles cramping for rest; crying out, oxygen debt, the wall.
Don’t make those assumptions, try to see not perceive,
Why look for a threat behind every shadow?
Does it matter who gained the most?
Had we goodwill, or selfish desires?
When did we last trust?
Then asking for help:
When it came,
Was it
You?

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