kborsden
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Poetry Book Collaborator
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Such stones exist for simple pleasures,
sped across the surface of the sea—
hunted and claimed for their smooth finish
the years have laboured by calm and rage.
They bounce forth with ease from a flicked wrist,
cast with care into the distant view,
and pass without a reclaiming thought:
forgotten, they sink to the abyss.
Just as words are cut into headstones,
just as we rest them on our pillows—
whatever those words we choose to skim,
they skip across our smiling facade.
Sunsets, holidays, long journeys home,
every minute was a stone I threw.
sped across the surface of the sea—
hunted and claimed for their smooth finish
the years have laboured by calm and rage.
They bounce forth with ease from a flicked wrist,
cast with care into the distant view,
and pass without a reclaiming thought:
forgotten, they sink to the abyss.
Just as words are cut into headstones,
just as we rest them on our pillows—
whatever those words we choose to skim,
they skip across our smiling facade.
Sunsets, holidays, long journeys home,
every minute was a stone I threw.
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