The day was so full of words that carried weight.

That dripped like that candle wax, hot and slow.

That lingered like those billows of incense, permeating and veiling.

Reminders that finite is a description of life. Of time.

Sentences strung together on a broken record we play to remember the infinite.

Round and round, it goes. 

The day was so full of glimpses that stung.

Gazes all too revealing

That what I know and what I do not know are now perhaps equal in measure.

Searching for love

That only I am capable of giving, myself.

Where it stops, no body knows. 

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