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the wind returns

time, and its passing. that
inexorable march towards eternity,
by our stubborn brains somehow
snapped into pieces that fit
between our teeth for a while.
the last year. the next deadline.
midnight, fast approaching.
hours? seconds?
what do you call dawn?
what will we call the moment when
the sky darkens for the last time?
somehow we know it goes on
and on without end, so we're kept awake
at the notion of extinction,
of nonexistence, of oblivion after
what we call death.
how could time go on without us?
how could . . .
i have heard a rhythm in the infinite,
the graceful inheritance of one day
to the next and a story that tells itself
over and over again, where
we wake into mornings the same but
more important for the yesterdays
that have gone by. the yesterdays that
matter though tomorrows
never end.
i have heard
a rhythm.

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