Tomorrow Maybe
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Strong was the art our eyes would steal.
Long was the waiting for hearts to heal.
Meeting in strange and unusual places,
Leathered and crease-worn, fragile faces,
Swirling with music of wrapped invitations,
Migrating downward in lost hesitations.
Always the life that someone else chose,
Bodies unwrapping a stranger’s clothes.
Grins that we wore like gashes we tore,
In the flesh of our minds, unrestored.
Swore to ourselves in notes left on shelves,
That tomorrow is ours for sure.
That always tomorrow
Would surely be ours,
For sure.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
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