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Act of Living

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To be alive is to traverse nightmares,
to twist your heart
into a pain-spiraled heartbeat,
and to cast flurries of hatred
through peaceful minds.

Plastered smiles reek of apathy,
obscuring the healing of truth;
splendorous riches are our puppeteers,
spurring the world’s rampant violence;
and potholes on life’s roads
materialize before its weary travelers
intending to swallow them whole
at the whim of fate and misfortune.

But to be alive
is to thrive in waking dreams,
to weave your heart
with little joy-bound stitches
(if you’ll seek them)
and to cast flurries of love
through hating minds.

Mitten hands hold tight
in snowy flutter,
companionship seeping
through their joined warmth;
a maple’s green veil
emits a calming ambiance
in soft bark incense;
fish will nibble toes
beneath the rippled liquid curtain,
and the blue jay will sing of spring
when love is born upon a lover’s kiss.

To be alive is to traverse nightmares;
but to be alive is to thrive
In a waking dream.





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