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I am not looking at the time.

the storm passes overhead

rain batters roof and windows

the damp air is cold

smells of musty earthworms and

rotted leaves

I sing a song under the noise


is this what it means to fill a page?

perhaps all that flows from me

is not genius

not actually for anyone other than myself

is that okay?

I know its necessary

something wild stirs

affects me beyond words

is this enough yet?

perhaps I write

innumerable fragments

am I not also fragmented?

finding whole

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