Into the Blue…

Beyond the Lie

That we should live a lie of life unbounded;
and all we touch, all we see to desire, be ours
for the closing of a hand, the nodding of a head.
Where cherished things remain possessed by one heart
and never need be severed from joy and jealousy.
A time forever chaste and weary.
Is one day less important than fifty and one years?
Perhaps fifty and six?
Is ninety and five too tedious and grandiose?
Is ten of less import or more than seven?
What is the measure of a life bounded:
in years and days of waiting and not knowing?
What truth is beyond the lie?
What dust will we become in the morrow?

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