Sunday, September 22, 2013

o51


My fingers cross, make the sign of X
And in the quadrants
Which hover like a blank stare
I see nothing resembling the past
Only questions behind a torrent of answers
That fall in a jumble
Like game pieces on an unkempt rug

 
In the chaos is relief
And not knowing
Is like never being too close to the truth
And there is safety there
In innocence and in doubt

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