"We all live under the same sky, but we don't all have the same horizon."
We are not; we’ve passed tomorrow, and forgotten
all the sorrow. There is hope in whispers, for we still
live as one, question where, cherish why, peek
under how, caress when, and skip to the who.
The reasons obscured by words rolling downhill to
the massacre that waits. Nothing is different. It’s the
same. Repetition strangles contemplation, and compassions’
sky falls upon the heads eagerly raised looking for answers.
But, we stare blindly, listen deafly and speak mutely for
we haven’t a clue in this universe. Whirling dervishes who
don’t know our existence is minute; we are a sparkle of stardust
all floating aimlessly, touching one another recklessly. We
have borrowed time and refuse to pay the debt accrued to
the owner of our destiny. We request extensions, citing the
same leftover and rotted excuses, “we are the true beings of the
horizon and we owe naught.” Court is in session!
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