Untitled
Like the wearing of time on stone
so to has my heart become hard
stripped of the rippling effect it once had
as a young thing flowing
White runs free in a spacious room
seen now only through a small peep-hole
The glitters of catastrophe
which once seemed so tragic
bend into a fold and become
the not so soft clay
And the process continues
pushing us toward growth
and leading us toward death
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