Done and over
What have I done?
In the morning I run to put pen to paper
but the ink is stronger and cuts at another place.
How listening changes my eyeballs.
I long to catch a sight of them holing hands
with shielded eyes, he chose to write a short story
and bleed out what can be done.
the quiet of a babbling brook makes a promise to welcome him in
so there will be no need to hide and the open will be a new boundary of joy
joy unending.
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