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Lamb hoofs set steady on the ground, etching circles in the rut of a koru. 

Clumsy knees shook, reborn, then forced to walk too early.

Its coat was licked raw, dew of guilt clinging to matted fur.

Just like rough satin, cotton worn until no longer soft and comforting to the fingertips. 

It hugs an urge to feel newly bloomed.

Restarting the garden of shameful saplings—roots fed by apology rain.

Purify, then rejoice.

Purge out the ugly insides until only the emptiness remains,

disguised as self-preservation.

A pulse beats in a familiar, comforting rhythm:

Repeating.

Waiting.

Weeping for the happenstance of improvement.

To be sentimental is a brooding regret.

It is the urge to scrub the table clean at any dirty speck,

in fear that the reminder will stain forever.

Long fur is torturous when every curly strand carries a memory,

a dangling reminder of negativity.

Would sheering it reinforce a perpetual rebirth? 

Repeat, redo, refurnish,

Re-

Lap up the same spoiled milk from thy breast in prayer of salvation.