In the beginning, it might have been
Heard, not squandered;
relished, rather than something wondered
at for its complexity and its majesty,
something that couldn't be brought to bear
without a sense that one was prepared
to endure the test of a fine line
between oneself, and the collective, and some variant form of chaotic, empyrean
demonic spacetime.
But some things are better left
divine.
Some things are better left
to themselves in their own minds, in mind.
Some people are best reciprocated with parity, in kind
and in this, the finding of a better way to be duplicitous,
a better way to arrange words around an altar, a temple, a grove. Nothing so porous
as serendipity; that would be something we all deserve
a little too much. Maybe compassion, maybe pity.
Maybe sand, and seeds sown too hard
in the living dearth.
Maybe water, and earth, and wind, and fire
drawn together, to remind yourself
of your own intense, undying worth.
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