two by one

wet towels

green grass


tears, big and fat, blocking my vision

eyes cast down

so down one falls.

just one-if I let more out, I fear this broken soul will shatter.

here is my question: how do they do it?

if all the souls that are older than mine have felt half the pain I have-how do they still stand?

but yet I know: because amongst the pain there is often some sort of peace, a peace that comes with shedding what was

to become

something else

something new. 


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