Epiom of Truth
...And then the shedding of the realism's dream,
it's loose follicles scattered loosely abroad;
we travelers leave a little piece behind,
skin, eye lash, dream;
...it is the memory that survives.
It is cast drifting in wind, your particles;
kissing your passerby, your followers,
we share ourselves with all who dwell,
those who hate, only hate themselves.
Copyright © Michael Benkhen | Year Posted 2012
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