A setting sun on the clouds of a day similar to today. I've reached my past and climbed the present and at these heights the only focus is on the wind, the rain. Washing the dirt of misinterpretation, misconception.
The abortion of time. A clot of flesh birthed and deathed too soon. The soldiers of the wound run to find the reasons why It wasn't right. It, being those depths of love that carry your voice to my soul.
I am weary and even I buy their reason, believing the stories of my own mistake. I am caught in the slow forgetting and the prison of never letting go.
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2 comments:
I don't know I feel about the word "misbirthed."
I think it must be the opposite of 'miscarriage'
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