Through the hole in my door

It comes in smooth and slightly worn

From traveling through a meandering tightrope from hand to hand eye to eye

Glancing at the idea that it could be more than what its face tells us

Do not be one to judge, that because there are fingerprints or scratches or slight tears that it contains suffering

A labyrinth indeed, but who are we to assume that the people who helped mold this face into the thing it is are the ones who made the damage?

For maybe there is no damage at all

What is behind the face, what is within the soul, the layers of its life is the value we must credit with our happiness, our knowledge, our resort to a reserved isle of contented, powered, pursuing.

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