middle-of-the-night pompous scribbles …

we murmur soft untruths,

along these paths we tread,

worn-down smiles,
painted-on,

askew,
enmeshed in the maze of tangled thread,

binding us, bound,
gagged, mute,

to what we have become,

numb, cold,
self-assured,
plastic, cute,

ah but know this,

enveloped in this fragrant dawn,

stirring,

gently,

with dewy-eyed hope,
and a soft yawn,

there thrives the hope,
thud-thudding in our core,

of something more,

than polythene wrapped,

vacuum-sealed lives,

and so yes,
yes, friend, hope thrives,

and there still may be,

more tomorrows to come,

and who may divine,

what some of those tomorrows,

may yet,
become ?

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