When the promises are all forgotten

leaving symbolic imprints, causing sadness with an unknown source.

When the last hope of a child has limped off to die in the woods by itself. And if there are no woods by that point, then let it be the desert.

For we will always have the desert. We cannot rid ourselves of that even if we wished to.

When the sky finally falls, and folks stop running in circles, facing their soiled and tattered laces.

When the wells have run dry, and I, the narrator, am drawing my last breath,

I will still love you.


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Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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