Lazaretto

Perhaps it’s the away
The distance saturating every instance
The stillness of an ocean lacking now, and evermore, another motion
Like violin’s forgotten strings when bows have nothing left to say

Or maybe it’s the calm
The meaning left when nothing else is leaning
The fragile, fading notion of a morning rise that lost its one emotion
Like limbs upon an autumn tree that knows how much is dead and gone

Perhaps it’s what I lack
The voices and cacophony of choices
The absence of commotion like the drying drops of tears within a potion
Like starry nights remembering they shine the most in swirling black

Or maybe it’s the near
The burning left from halos not returning
The simmering demotion of the harlequin facade we call devotion
Like little rooms I made of “I am” where I thought I’d finally find a “we’re”

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