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What if everything we see ,is a shadow of truth.
And not truth itself,
What if the life we live - is not ours but someone else's.
What if the meal we like ,
Was theirs that wanted you to like .

In a space filled with opportunities,beauty and hope.
What if there was non ,
But intentions that doesn't belong to us ,
But all we must follow.

What if the clouds were not really clouds,
But distraction to the clear sky,
And maybe one that distracts stars from shinning through.

What if every smile was not a sign of happiness,
But pain .
What if every yes was a No ,

Perhaps,
We are living quietly,  
In the soft shadows  
Of a deeper truth.
This poem is dedicated to all readers , being able to see things with different perspective in a world where things and people are not real but seem real instead let's seek a deeper truth.
Every written word carries a seed
Every crafted poem, a vineyard
Every painstaking poet, secateurs
by which to dress the vine,
to balance spurs, direct buds,
remove decaying lines
and reduce undue foliage
to better nurture the fruit
to bring the harvest
to release the wine
to inspire the dark flow
onto another page
*After 'Every Word' by Weeping Willow.
I suppose you lied—
when you swore that words could never wound you.
It is no crime; all souls deceive,
veiling their thresholds,
concealing the hour when endurance unravels,
and silence becomes their only shield.

I have reshaped fragments of myself,
filed edges though the steel endures—
yes, I remain a thorn,
but my counsel turns inward now,
no longer flung outward like brittle seeds,
but sown deep in the soil of my own marrow.

And so the contract splinters—not with fire, but with the quiet severing of a thread,
a fellowship drifting into distance,
a vessel whose torn sails I will never mend.

I am content—resting in the stillness I have chosen.
And you—
are you at peace, or only silent?
Growth through loss; peace found in letting go.
And from the middle arises
A River
Into
The Future
And I!am
Excited for whats to come

🌎🎶🍓
Sorry for taking a while
:-*
Lavender

On a milestone in a small town, I sat trying to write
a poem, and a man sat on a wooden bench watching
me; he had a newspaper on his lap. A cat under a car
was watching him; perhaps he gave it something to eat
from time to time. With a sigh, I put my notebook back
into the side pocket of my jacket. No poem today.
The man began reading his newspaper, and the cat looked
away and began grooming itself. A bus stopped two
elderly ladies alighted, bags full of shopping, and all was
back to normal, but I remember the air of summer dust
diesel fumes and the aroma of lavender.
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