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The Hand of Hope

By holding the hand of hope,
reality turns foggy and is
reconstructed before me.

I look into a mirror and see an aged me.

And she hasn't let go of my hand.

We walk through a familiar place and a wink from temptation doesn't touch me.

For a moment I am outside myself
looking in.
The swollen heart in my chest
expands and is visible in my eyes.

I cradle the contentedness
that has washed my insides
and pray for its permanent residue.

And she hasn't let go of my hand.



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