quarta-feira, 10 de outubro de 2012

357

Had he not thought before
He would now think of himself
As crazy.

There were the sheets:
Lying in their desperate sleep
For his eyes they couldn't meet.

But has he bowed down to notice them
Gently did his hands go further deep
Into what he had done, what he had been.

Gently enough he greated sorrow
Remembrance of things past
Sadness for what hadn't been done
Laughter for every other mistake.

For objects meet no fear.
Fear comes from within.
And through looking at what he had been
He now knew what he could become.

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