Before. There is always before.
There is after. This, we become.
But the mind can play tricks.
It creates a blank space here.
Memory may say: this, then this.
But where do the lost selves go?
Are they caught between centuries?
Does their vision mirror our dreams?
As a child, I would pretend blindness,
To teach my fingers how to see.
As long as water remained, and earth,
I held hope as a seed in my hand.
I let you go, but you remain where devotion lingers with leaf-curtains drawn; and dreams gather in pools of verdigris; where c...
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