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A slow breaking and mending
of blood and bone
fit for the poorest
of ivory souls.
Pour tomber, pour courir,
pour mourir; no less!

Mademoiselle
No one, to you,
do tell.
A dream,
perhaps a nightmare,
that died in your arms
much too long ago.


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Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Free verse
As we grow accustomed to the pain, we forget how it ever was to have only unbearable lightness. The hurt becomes part of us; we lose all memory of better days, causing us to have no suitable comparison to clear our judgement, with. As ironic as it is, living with only pain, we see no need for change.

It numbs, sooner or later, the same way your eyes adjust to the dark or your skin adapts to the heat. We can bear burdens and get so used to the load that it seems to disappear, momentarily. But it'd be lying to say we were ever happy..or that our backs were ever straight.

With all the lightness, I can muster, I send these thoughts to you. I hope that sooner or later, everything will be made right. This isn't right. It was, once, I'm sure -I have absolutely no doubt of that! But things change and we can only hope for the best.

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