Type
Shovel
Swallow.
Anything not to be here.
Come with me,
I don’t want to be alone.
Anything not to be seen.
Moving among the mirrors,
Looking anywhere that isn’t real.
Reflections just soften the blow
Of landing in what can’t be changed.
But there is no more truth
In the present moment
Than in the reflections constructed
By those who seek to run.
All the grasping to the truth
Of the here and now,
No more noble than a tweeting teen.
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