There’s a distant place, a delicate

vision created from the memory of

questionably reality.  Believing what

was there may be the shadow of what

was only part; we see the evidence of

wind but not the actual wind.  Soon the

absurd becomes real, a parallel difference

difficult to discern like the layers of an

onion; the pieces cry themselves to the

floor.  We call upon the angels but their too

busy to answer.  We claim the rightness

of the story as the belief settles in.

This type dark, isn’t just yours.



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