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What is rage but condensed love;
I await until my Father steps out the door
and I fold my knees on the ground like a hermit
eating back the words, I should’ve known better.

My silence is a sense of shame —
one that I embrace like bones did the flesh.
In all its bleakness, I see his fondness
leaking, seeping into each footprint I leave behind
and it is not so much a matter of pride
when I cater my admiration in the form of spite,
wondering how long must I be voiceless
and therefore, a child in the eyes of my dearest.

I am a relic of all the violence I avoid;
supposedly by drawing lines on the egg whites,
the sky shall be whatever I’d want it to be —
grey, lilac, olive, crepe & a little scarred by the moon.

At the arrival of dawn, I break away
from the respite of being thoughtless,
mucky with envy for a world like another
but upon the nightly twilight, I subdue
to the nourishment of leaving in all sorts —
we are ageless in our pursuits
caressing the likes of time gone awry.

I was a craftsman never tended to;
polished like a language promiscuous back in the day
but really, existed like a myth —
deeply aware of the musings from being loved
and yet wickedly blue over what is expected in return.


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