355

Against the backdrop of diminished time
with ragged breath and flagging hopes of truth
a world of night and day, of faith and crime
gyrates itself upon the zeal of youth:
My lungs are sore with every single breath
yet I fill my chest with love as angels do
if they do exist beyond the realm of death
and across the present’s womb spawn anew:
Perhaps then there’d be something to fight for
a prize of clearer communication
like when you end up opening the right door
on TV, walk into inspiration:
Can’t you see it’s a trap, your life, your worth?
I’d sigh if I could, but I’m out of breath.

 

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