perfect or imperfect, still or
restless, there are truths
that do not perish, as there
are nights that do not end
i have come to live on
one furtive, fleeting glance
with solitude begging for
another beginning, a chance,
an onset, a possibility
of finding all that remains
after years and years of ruin
and wretchedness, when all
things lie in the mercy of your hands
barren, empty, cold.
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