I was walk­ing through time for­ev­er it seemed,
Begrudged, not know­ing why I jour­neyed here, as
Fright­ened ques­tions gave unto ques­tions’ stare,
Frag­ile inno­cence giv­ing up knowl­edge’s tolls.

How can the world be so? my voice wept among
Cor­rod­ed iron ram­parts and misty corridors

But I’d longed for thoughts that belonged not to me.
But I’d filled my head with poi­soned beliefs.

So I walked among the dead and their silent solitude,
Funer­al march­es, lurid day­light, a mead­ow’s warm touch.
For those who speak not they have many tales to tell,
In scat­tered whis­pers from their tombs of blanched stone.

And as slow­ly I with­drew from the grave­yard that day
I took also those lessons, in hap­pi­ly tear­ful eyes.

Sober­ing it was, with inspi­ra­tion lat­er that eve.
Then qui­et as a mouse, there was a new peace.

And here it is found, with a long, grate­ful breath.

I love as I always have — those close to my heart,
And I love too this life, and the secrets it holds.

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