Only then
will we know
who we are
what we are
where we came from
and the order
in the stars.
We are imperfect
innumerable,
invaluable
entranced
by baubles
waylaid by
pain and the
weight of
our troubles.
for those
that dwell in
the movement
of the past
or of other
will never live
in the moment
of now
will never live
with the sighs
of nature's breathing
out and in
of the damage
inherent in life
the beauty
in a dying tree
acknowledging
the cycle
we all seem
to be
festooned with
leeches and liars
and thieves
who believe their laughter
will continue
after death
in the hereafter
but smothered
like evil
in the furrowing
brow of tomorrow.
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