How is it these flowers survive
even when all I can see
is the light only now expanding
into the forgotten hours?
Is that a truer definition of sacrifice,
or just another word for oppression?
The answers dance in
the subtle sincerities of the light
floating from the horizon, the trajectory
broken by the stubborn homes,
but I welcome the wandering clouds
and find comfort in their familiar nuisance.
When it comes down to it,
the high water mark is
no different than the low,
but the world between them
is a coin those of above and below
will never truly understand.



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