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Poetry

Searching

How deep is the sea that clutches

and drags me to the muddy floor, within?

How many days will I tumble

into the swell of inner life

unspoken, unwanted, unkind?

Shall I stand here, now,

battered and smiling, beside this beautiful life?

Still searching.

Still searching.

Always searching, but for the fleeting days

of clarity,

of home neat and tidy.

The creative knife;

sharp, yet desperately beautiful in shine.

Still searching.

Always, still searching.

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