The worries are draped over me like fondant
The package may look delicious but hides a hollow inside
This isn’t the glamourous torture described
By painters and poets
We could not have possibly reached the end of our rope
Not when there’s so much slack to pull tighter
Some breath left to form the words
So close to the delicious pain
I want to stop but it’s beyond my power
Ar least not until I’ve wrung every drop
And can feel the end of our story
I’ll be left with my worries again
The Word Rummager 
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