Did we share the same vision,
the same gravel to crack our soles,
same light ingraining colors
that alight movement in conscience?
Is language more than a vessel,
or voices draining empty in the herd,
burdened trampled feet depleted,
reverting to adjoining paths?
We intentions bent upon infringement,
illicit gifts sent inconspicuously
planted within a child's willful wonder,
positioned as a delicate inversion?
Is pain of loss held sway,
an examination of the entire screen,
meshing process - straining nuance,
commoditized, offered in prayer and digestion?
Does the reflected prism spread wide in rays,
or crystallize its vision into distillation,
like shedding light in dark spaces between,
offering payments of past?
MM 1/17
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