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A Game Of Two Halves

Whilst rebinding an anthology of myself,

Happened to fall out a photo torn in two,

Of me and another, the other torn away:

Half anchored in time, half a void;

Me safely tucked away through all these years,

Sole remaining half of a snapshot pair,

Which dust has put to sleep and darkness guards,

As tombs their sleepers never cross with care.

What secrets dark years traded,

As news, lay blind to me

As though I were a dusty book,

Lying forgotten on a shelf,

The image of my happiness divided from itself,

The other half has long since disappeared

On paper and in life:

I know not now

From which hand that bird now feeds.

My eyes cannot see, but my heart feels and my mind pleads

That this may be the nadir of my Fate

Whose unseen directors of its orbit

Will lift me once again to its zenith.

Books are anthologies of ourselves:

Words in sentences, sentences in paragraphs,

Paragraphs in chapters and chapters in life,

Each connecting with another and then closed,

Warmly tucked away and cooling from the thought

Until rekindled by a chance spark,

Forever writing over itself with time,

As waves on the shore

In a single infinite volume called Oblivion

Which no mortal can edit once written.

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