Some look like mangled stars
others simply appear discoloured
while Ganga takes on human form for love
teak trees persist in letting go of dusty leaves
another creak of a rusty swing jars peace
thoughts meander around one sentence
absorbed from a recently devoured book
the human spirit survives by selective forgetting
I am not convinced by this but allow the notion
to flow through a painful tide within
as another star drifts in the wind
refusing to shine
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