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Tided over
I carry an accident in one of my hands.
Which clenched fist
will you pick?
And is it all just
part of a masterplan?
The fragility of man
exists like shore sand:
Some grains will be washed over.
Some will remain warm.
And tattered hearts are merely victim
to a tide of tears:
That flood of fears
that leaves your ears reminded,
quite ironically,
of the symphony in the sound
of something washed away.
