what is it,
i wonder, that ticking clock,
these
wet streets under
the laundry
of clouds,
what is it that makes
us walk
towards or away
from
what needs to be done,
in constant
need
of love,
the shelter of a loved one.
what are the hours about,
the hands
intent
on circling the cold
plate. have we gone
wrong
in how we live our lives,
or is this the only way.
believing strangely that
tomorrow
could be better.
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