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Looking toward lofty heights
have I missed your presence?
Asking strangers your whereabouts
I see something divinely familiar.
When I heard your location was secret
I sought out a compass, a map, a talisman.
There was nowhere you do not inhabit…
I was told.
So, I look at every weed,
at every single pavement crack.
I sifted ash in my best sackcloth.
With hesitation I clean every stain.
Every single day I wearily rest
gathering each spark and gleam
inside an almost empty hope chest,
Closing it with every slumbering breath.
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