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The days are angry
in their inscrutable silence.
I’ve counted the times
they have raised their voice,
trying to be heard
over the tedium of
makeshift meaning
and bouts of purpose
that never quite make it
to dusk.
All they long to be
is a river that rages
This one
lies at my feet
like the ones before it,
too many to count,
with heaving breaths,
wrestled to the ground by
the towering finality
of the no choice,
the choke hold
of the single path.
Devoid of visions.
Its arms do not flail,
but all the life left
in its blood is seething
and rebellious
and consumed
by a night that has been
torn and pulled
inside out.

Image by photographer Jonas Hafner


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