Where the Wordpath Splits

An omission

of a certain line


an incision in Time;

the forgone rhyme


the intangible realm

of Potential.

We, the poets,

play under the angled stare

of the sun

and bend only the light

we see fit

for the sheet.

But I crave

the unrealized,

to bask

in the alternate glow

and see how

it would shine.

Because the truth is,

the unvoiced cries

are somewhere heard.

In this, I confide.

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