So painful, so tender

A seed kept in warmth of our hands, watered by sweat

We are echoes of our former selves; sat at the end of the telephone game

Now we take the garble and make sense of it

Planting seedlings (hopes) in the refuse

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Or

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We let out a sigh and open our hands

Let the seeds fall as they will;

Warm under our feet, nourished by the rain

Clearly written

No more echoes

No games

Just painful and tender

 

Trust

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- N25