Foretold
How are those that hate,
like those who love,
when love is just a gate
to the other hates,
that we feel arn't rough
enough to steal our souls.
How are those that care,
like a ferry to a despair,
that we have always feared
from those never there,
yet care is enough to sooth our bones.
How is life so fleeting,
yet always meaning,
too soon to tell,
too late foretold.
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