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Monday, March 06, 2006


As much as I destroy there is that in me, which is immutable.
Whitman may laugh at this poor parody
Of words turned over from the soul’s memory
A vault frozen in the mind
Endlessly seeking to time its trance
Across all the imprints of a reflection
Merged, emblazoned on a soul possessed

A soul that breathes the dance of desire not desired
The lure of love not lusted
The magic of minds not mated
As much as I clasp every breath
I cannot capture all
Every wisp of my soul
Trembling in its frailty
Incredulous innocence slumbering
In disquieting peace that
Leaves every agony shattered
By glimpses of love so rare
That I weep through the coffin of my dead past
To gather this child soul
And resurrect it afresh
Create the reflection that reflects no more
For all that was and is
Is no more but You. Me. You. Just soul. Just. Me. You. Just one.

Posted this on the blog after reading the below post, somehow it matches what I felt here.

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