The Stoic - Poem by H.E Warfield
What does your heart digest in your most private hour?
What does your mind disgorge in your most contemplative moments?
Do you resist the torment it comes, and lick the honey from your lips?
Or do you let it exude, like sweet sap from an old oak tree,
Tattered and torn by the names calved in you over the years,
By the lovers who skip pebbles by the brook
and kiss in the shade of your branches.
In time as every winter passes, this bark will fall away.
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