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Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #2254689
I can’t write if I’m too busy watching others…
 Delicate hands wrought with fiery lacerations,
 reminders of the verdant veil with treacherous thorns
 pushed to the side. Thick dirt, organic, shrieking calves.
 No end in sight.
 Haggard rasps and widened gasps, noises calling out a
 desperation. A desire to rest. A desire to Glory. No time to explain,
 only pages to walk, miles to read, a life mutated.
 Disgusting heat, pressure by which to temper.
 Looking back on a path of broken grass, swaying
 branches, and no others. Easy for others to ignore,
 to misunderstand origins, battles, and scars.
 This pilgrammage to understand. Mine.
 Shrieks, rustling, wild sounds and foreign close in
 like the dark hunting along the narrow clearing behind.
 Freezing terror. No stars, only the flourishing of fronds.
 Familiarity hasn’t been. Never will be.
 No more time. No more voices of negativity. Eyeing the path
 before me, unaware of those around aside from
 distant voices, criticizing choices, just keeping them noises.
 Is hating worth not creating?
 No time for hate, no time for fear. No energy wasted.
 Pushing forward to find verisimilitude, to understand
 Creation. Whispered prayers of love and discovery for you.
 No response for the lazy nor conniving.
 Can’t reach a destination watching others. Can’t find Glory
 without focusing on steps, determined…exhausted.
 Don’t know where I’m going, no clue where I’ll end up,
 but I’ll be there, and I’ll be me.
 Where I’m supposed to be.
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