It’s a sad divide.
I don’t even recognize
The sound of my own voice.
I’m shifting in my seat,
Measuring time in tiny doses.
Sometimes the only reminder of myself,
Are my own small footsteps
Pacing quietly up the stairs.
Why how this way?
Even though knowing, like a child
I resist the answer:
We are not vigilante and so
We are surprised when,
Loving in a natural way,
Sadness slips in the back door.
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