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Rust.

Timing takes away from us

the gold medals of our youth.

From plastic souvenirs that break

to

timeless records without use.

No overstylistic amalgam-

-just black or white to choose.

A safety blanket or mid-life crisis-

what's left of us to lose?

 

With imagined money

&

imaginary love

what good is "good"

for bargained luck?

 

- I spoke of dreams I could not see,

could not feel, nor breathe, nor touch.

 

- I used to feel what I may be,

now I wait around and rust.

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Written by
nicholas-james-berlincourt
American
Published
Mar 21, 2014
Lines·Words
18·86
Permission

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