Transcendence

How empathy rises as the depths deepen,
how much is shed by the chisel of life’s lore,
if that is the rubble that we must sleep in,
then trust that we lay in a bed of gold ore,
we cannot hide tears in the pools we weep in,
nor armor plate our hearts when there is no war,
unhinge the throes that our memories keep in,
for all paths are open when there is no door.

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I wrote this poem in the form of an ottava siciliana.