What wants to be written
is the mystery of despair,
the majesty of the sky,
the marginality of existence.
These are the truths unborn
moving under our skin.
They strain to emerge,
to take face and breathe,
blinking in the light,
announcing their presence.
They are eternal and newly born
each time we pause,
write it down,
outline the feeling of being,
with all its tears and joys.
What wants to be written
is me and you and the
cloud changing chaos of
trying to live until we die.
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