in what light there is
for our books.
sunsets
and rises.
the moon.
a bare light in an
empty room.
we sweep up
the crumbs,
brush back the cobwebs.
we listen
to the floor creak,
to the wind
whistle
as it slides through
the cracked pane.
we're hungry.
we're lost.
we're alone.
but we do the best we
can.
we get up
each morning and do it
once more.
we turn to the next page,
wondering
what will be
the end.
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