Life, sometimes a miracle,
Sometimes just wet shoes
ungracefully leaping over
muddled puddles of time
Guilt, leftover from spent seasons,
Not knowing how to
listen to tragedies without
vomiting
Most of this orbit’s gifts
lying in such toxic pools
are never hung out to dry,
unable to breathe, disregarded
Entire histories obliterated
with a bang, coupled
with some faint apology,
leave voices muddy and silent
Next to puddles
filled with expired energy,
burdens are left to air out
haphazard attempts to repent
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