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Stroll with me under the trees
to where the old road bends,
at the hanging sycamores
then walk away
beyond my sight
for I cannot follow
do not turn back,
you have many miles to go
and new companions to meet
I will wait here, in the shade
tired feet need to rest
visit me now and again
when the leaves fall
but only in memory
walk on
Press your ear against the bowl
can you hear it ringing
I think the earth is singing
I awake with you asking me the same questions, and I answer truthfully and then I cry.
But I don’t know if I cry of joy or sorrow because before I can take another breathe the dream is over and you are sleeping next to me. And the dream is a piece of yarn that unravels me into waking life where I don’t have the courage to answer you truthfully.
The vague areas of life

Where do we hold vagueness as a tool
What does it conceal
Does it reflect hefty weight of responsibility or cowardice or
Of inauthenticity or the search for the discipline in life to continue to steer us in our direction of growth

How good of a judge are we of truth ? Does truth need a judge ? What if truth destroys and hurts when it too subjective and narrow ? What truth are then healing and which not ?

Can the weight of what is vague be felt ? And if so as what ?
Last leaves swept
Pile

Years heaped

Wan smile
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