Turbid

I never speak ill of the dead it’s those who are alive I worry about.

The sun, giving too much warmth  for the time of the year and how we never seem to fully enjoy it.

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Stream

Deep inland we soon
forget the infinity of the sea.

Today I follow rivers
ruthlessly heading for their end

as I carry sorrow like an old backpack
that shaped itself to the curve of my back
and a smile that is not mine.

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