I love Emily Dickenson and was flipping through one of my collections and found this poem. So I share it with you:
The Mystery of Pain
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
It's one of my favorites, and kind of goes along with my previous post.:)
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