Cycloidal motion.

The dead not dead but barely breathing.

How is it possible to so constantly haunt so sacred a place?

Burning words and biting eyes, the cruel want-push of confusion.

Angel’s face – devil’s touch. Something so wanted, so feared. So in need.

Why do we spend so much grief look           ing for what is right in front of us?

Where is the clarity of thought that brings sweet relief, throwing shadow

where context is needed. A resolution of fine grain, photons scatter us.

Our self-made walls are closing in, lacking words of sufficient

weight. We tremble at the magnificent substance of

everything.

.

.

POSSIBILITY

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