Rivers and forests…


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And on the 4th hour
I think…
Maybe this is love…
Floating under the veils of sarcasm..
Burdened under the weight of truth…
Fear.
Your love is like pictures on a stranger’s wall…
Beautiful…. But outside of me…
I stand and stare…
There is longing lurking someplace dark…
But the weight of what’s on that wall
Breaks the truth to me…
Breathlessly and namelessly I walk on past..
A surveyor of a picture I didn’t paint..
Pretending those lines were never drawn…
No. Not me.
Too many miles between us…
Skin deep…
This spot must already be taken…
emptiness must now wear a new name…
Spaces I find are easy to fill, but hard to let go…
We go miles before we sleep..
I try harder….
Bitter cold callousness takes birth in my mouth, as my hands paint dark forests from words that were never meant to exist…
How can fire burn so cold?
The rivers left to find their way…
While forests creak… They won’t give way…
Cry river…
run river…
Swallow river..
Tremble…
Sway…
Stay awake while the forest binds herself through unyielding wilderness.
Trap.
And just like that… Her starkness remains…
What draws them in… Keeps them in..
Keeps them out…
They forget…
She forgets…
And together,
the surveyor becomes the surveyed….

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