The Internal Mosaic

pain moves like a soldier. restless and determined to win a war that ended long ago. these bodies are tissue paper and vinegar. so we wait. for time to tell us that our suffering is over. but time is a liar. and suffering is blind, deaf and dumb.

we simmer softly. in the years that become us. the cracks in the mirror gradually expanding. until the entire picture has shattered.

the truth is like an oven. it sets what is raw. it chars what we ignore.

we ripen under the scorch of the sun. we rot in the scowl of winter.

we are many brilliant things, but strong is not one of them.

we need far too much.

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