A crippling glance had been the commencement to the conclusion.

All roads must lead somewhere.

Every waterfall brings disrepair.

Fate has an ironic tone…painting by number.

Elaborating in the future.

And,

with eloquence…bleeding into the past.

Leaving behind a present that fades fast.

∞

In all manner of ability some find a way to get back home.

Limping, crawling, scratching.

Many have been born to die.

Figments of imagination.

Beings…not being.

In the corners of the onlooker’s eye.

 

 

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