Dust

I am without shoes–

it is not what I wanted

but it happened anyway

a collection of things

to attain

rusted walls may scar

a copper of airy possibilities–

we all make sacrifices

in life,

some more than others–

I walk these hallways

and on shelves are books

they are staring at me

asking me if my name

will ever appear–

the fog thickens

and I can barely see

the stain glass windows,

and sometimes

I wonder the same.

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