Are there truths too terrible
to contemplate in the conscience mind?
Must they always come by stealth,
when you least expect the abyss
to open up in your front of you,
suddenly awake in the middle
of the night and at the very core
of your being? Or in the shower,
perhaps, on a summer’s morning
when the world outside is filled
with hope and life and light
and the world inside is bursting out
with hope renewed and fragile
anticipation of the idea ... 'maybe'?
_
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