in soul of search mates

 


belonging.

the sad is search and
difficult with all of its
dramatics to turn oneself into a
prize it’s moral

acrobatics we love because
we love to love to need to feel
inside but all that ever was
and is is made of clove and

pride we string along our
platitudes we soon evince our
longing but souls are made of fragile
stuff and yearning for


 

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