Sentence
Awaiting, like the stillness breath of fate ~
complying with my solitude's bereave,
I chanced your heart, and then did look in grief
at all the risks construed, the moment's thief.
And it were always, someone else, some kind
some ignorance of path, some meriting refined,
it were . . . not us, not using, not defined
but in my sentence, in my dreaming's line.
It were my faith, it then became resign
but by trust's hiding, I am thereby . . . find!
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