Into
the catacombs I
stride.
Buried resentment
never to resurface,
I live
above this;
my thoughts are in
my arms,
and the world itself
(goes no farther
than the soft breath
whispering against my neck).
These beautiful lungs,
breathe,
and live
against my chest!
Past is past,
and I don’t need
to see the future-
for it lies Beyond
my world.
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