It becomes as it sounds,
Where you’re reaching a point,
On becoming that to see what is before one’s eyes,
If it is worth the time or not . . .
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In a case like this,
It wasn’t,
Oh yes there were times that it was fine,
In others,
It was all but nothing to walk away.
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Wonder of how time goes,
In few lucky moments,
It’s short and engaging as spreading sea salt,
Over an open flesh wound,
And silence never leaves one throat.
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Maybe in time the wound will heal,
And a joyful face will grace upon oneself,
But now a face of confusion is all there really is.
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To see what eyes have come upon,
Undoing will never happen,
For it’s there,
Hollow in the easiest way of saying it,
Worth a moment,
Differs for those unknown of what’s to come.
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But as again,
It’s reaching a point,
To really care anymore,
For that,
Lacking any care is now,
Moving on is the next move.
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Be done now,
And let it die,
As a slow but soon healing,
Scar fading in era.