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The music here has created a movement,

and beauty is bleeding from within.

Everything is esoteric,

seeds budding and stemming from a glance, from the simplicity of a soft, gentle touch,

from my heart and to and through you.

All of this, of course,

has always been,

and always will be.

Harmony has passion,

and

fear flies with just as much grace as that of

a diving dove.

 

Now and again, illusions form–

blankets of snow are tricks from the midnight moonlight,

whispers beyond the hallway are shakes from a cold chill,

and painful thoughts are only fragments from feelings of the past.

We have buried ourselves,

all of us.

In so many shapes,

in so many ways,

in so many places.

Falling

apart.

 

But now, the air is aberrant

and these vessels;

these veins and vines,

these eyes and ears,

see and feel and hear

the heart of the matter–

the only matter that has ever mattered.

 

And so we travel on,

picking up the pieces,

trying to live our lives like circles.

Perfect in our own rotations.

All to touch again,

perhaps.

 

But,

tender to shine together

we all are,

as long as we breathe

life

beyond

our skin.

As long as we share

out

from

within.

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Hand in the towel and call it off.

Take a note that this ones done,

the money on him is only on the losing end

and his short side

from here on out.

This batter beast has been broken to small shavings

and brittles of bark—

once a great sight to see,

but now this oak is centered in a circular blackness;

in rings of death reaching out.

And he won’t last the winter.

Yeah,

perhaps he will stand here though

waiting for a torrential rain

and a wild wind to shake it to the ground,

in topple it to its end

for the earth to eat.

Maybe it could be some time that

he stays standing here dead and alone,

hollow and broken and beaten.

But he won’t ever be a winner,

or a true fighter

like that beautiful sight I remember so well.

He’ll only be fighting himself,

lying and losing his life one ring at a time

until all the years are added up to rotted wood

to some charcoal ash,

to fresh dirt.

He won’t ever be the fighter I once knew.

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