somewhere but there is no place left to go
you stumble slowly down a gray pavement
and it is as if people pass right through you
abstracted from the cloud-laden sky
and the aural smudge of traffic and birdsong
as if where you are going means less
than where you are coming from...
your purpose served (for ill or good)
you won't know in this skin
you threw dice and sometimes you won
you bared your heart and maybe once
or so you didn't get it broken and now to stand
outside all concern of those who didn't do as much for you...
Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito.
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