I cannot see your soul, and mine is anonymous

We are not alone, but that means something else

This is not our place, it is a time we are leasing from the universe

You are pretending to be something else, something that will not last

I have found this package of truth; the wrong sound emanates from within

I have to abandon the idea of verisimilitude…

I have to abandon love
because any recipient knows that they can do better
in a landscape of denial

I hear the dance of the forest; the way people rely on an economy of uncertainty

Going gorgeously into the fables of Narcissus and Sisyphus

Mental is not physical, and lyrical is not spiritual.

I know.

I cannot regret so much, having lived so little.

Who can help but save themselves when the explosion exposes the final year.

It is not sad.

It is forensic and philanthropic to witness the turning of our globe,
on which we strive to outlive destiny itself.

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Published by

errorattic

Writer, aspiring farmer and homesteader in North Georgia, making ends meet and trying to become more enlightened.

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