I have a penchant to love
what cannot be loved
with my heart awake and open.
God plumbs a line
from heaven to that beacon
in a spiral formation
and whispers, "Love your neighbor."
I can't help myself as I stoop
to gather the dirty and tired
withers of the unloved;
of the lost,
to my breast,
forgetting sometimes
that cornered and untrained souls
are prone to bite
even the kindest hand.
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