I find that
I am constructed only
of a telescope in fog.
Strangely now I
am a dormant searcher.
Once I lived for outside
and now I live for the self
I don’t believe in.
Strangely now I
look through the eyes that I don’t trust.
My hands are not weak.
My hands are not weak or unpracticed.
Stars melt and drip
behind a blinding atmosphere
and doesn’t that door
wasted sun
make you
feel so entirely small and gone.
Found behind nothing
found behind nothing
and so much to never search for.
Wanderlust for my chilled and thump-less chest.


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