Countdown, 15 (352.)

I can hardly remember
the days I didn’t judge,
when I felt
unconditional love and appreciation,
that possibly clouded my vision.
Now it’s hard not to look too close
and find some sort of flaw.
We’re all flawed.
It’s a global truth.
Yet back then,
I think I was too close to the other end,
for I couldn’t see problems
until they were right on top of me,
hands clamping to strangle.

What is this weird oceanic cyclical rhythm
that moves and turns around
without a pause or a comma?
To love, then long,
to pine for song,
to wish for natural growth
then hope for power
to move the stars?
When will they align?

When will we align.

I may be waiting a long time.


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