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We slept through our winter lows
with a steadfast faith in repetition.
The comfort we’d find open-eyed
was all we craved as we disregarded
subtle dreams of the secrets we
suppressed and forgot long ago.
Our minds indulged in the bitter
taste of discernment, we devoured
it and grew too afraid to tell–we
swore our scattered selves about
how we never would–intentions
irrelevant to interpretation. Our
tongues became pacifiers that
hindered more than our mouths,
agape like graves entombed by
every grain–language is no fertile
soil when its words are dirt–
Language is a grayspace where the
half-life of our every thought reduces
with every uttered word. The more,
the less (I guess) as separation swells
with every bridge we’ve burned. If
truth was limpid, we’d having nothing
and nothing to be learned.