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Every scar
An ideal shines bright as hope,
when it dawns on us that we can't learn
to breath water
but can swallow air.
And nothing changes,
or gives us the chance to change,
unless none of it will be for the better.
Instead of going we were growing.
And in a crystal ball,
our future swirled to show an oncoming tide
which whippes waves across our pale cheeks
to give them the appearence of life.
And next we found our voices
in the heartbeats of shells.
As inconsistent as they were,
we were ovewhelmed by presence.
The ongoing existence of anything
would leave us in wanting,
waking to see half te day gone and alarm bells
still ringing
because we've let our own ears shy away from sound
like our eyes now shy away from light.
All the while we're washed with saltwater
to cleanse every scar,
and all the while we excape from the ocean
with our souls remaining untouched.
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A poem about the difficulty of learning to cleanse yourself from the inside out.