Do they ever go away?
Do they really die?
Or just go to live
someplace else
under a new name,
an unworn guise.
Dreams that were left
at the altar of pragmatism
Yearnings kept unfelt
at the threshold of survival
Yesterdays that come
unfolded in the morrows
And you
that is
trying to live
with a name assumed
and a guise convenient
If heaving on the outside
and breath beating within
could make one alive
Forge of a smith would be it
and not womb
where death took refuge.
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