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It would be foolish to believe the sun wouldn’t shine. That tomorrow be as grim as today. That a hole will never be filled. Chasms great, ancient and dark. But eventually even the lonely find company. The wanderer a home. Roots to spill from his toes. Something longed for for entire lifetime. Even the deepest of holes get filled. It just takes time. |
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Broken sober and in the valley, Stars pierce slow moving clouds. Maybe a moon, crescent or full, And sometimes nothing at all. Dogs howling, as headlights light cane. No longer driving, no ass to kiss a seat. Just sinking deeper and deeper, Until there is no face, no name, or place. To fade into the night, Into earth, sleeper amongst the rocks. With spirits rest, ease a sore traveller. Home here again. |
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Nothing will ever be the same. No return to lonesome wandering. No sorrow to wonder. No longer a singular, No longer alone. To feel worthy, To love freely. To have received. To no longer return, To that strange boy on the edge of a cliff, Face covered in red dirt. |
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