Once the frame ceases to limit
and the nail stops hanging the fate
On the wall that is no more
looked at
The picture,
the four wooden sticks once framed,
long gone
Perhaps torn,
perhaps hid away,
somewhere,
never to be found
except when I am
not looking for it
on that empty afternoon
when the breeze's still
and dusk's on the anvil
as I rise with the setting sun
to become the evening
waiting for the night
to engulf me
and more stars light my innards
than the countless
scrambling for space
up there, somewhere
somewhere I need no more
care to see
the reflection of my lost
longing
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