05 April, 2017

Wet Shoes

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

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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