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how our words are mistaken for meaning
    we walk between the lines
and empty dots mark unfinished sentences

               we are no poets
performing

read what's not been written

often
untold stories are the most pure of them all

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nighttime sounds: an owl in a tree,
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taking residence in my heart

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a song upon a breeze
for music has forsaken us
went lost among the trees

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in silence now we just await
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