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The walls are bare. ‘Where’s all the writing?’

Rooted in place, resolve unshakeable, I stare at the empty crystal ball

Somebody is asking, ‘Where’s your life?’

I am still waiting for it to happen

I keep thinking I missed a few moments

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I am still waiting for the clock to make it’s rounds so that when he returns, he will find me right where he left me.

What could have been. Could it really have been, or am I hanging on to illusion plays of light on the wall?

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