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Where the Wordpath Splits
An omission
of a certain line
creates
an incision in Time;
the forgone rhyme
populates
the intangible realm
of Potential.
We, the poets,
play under the angled stare
of the sun
and bend only the light
we see fit
for the sheet.
But I crave
the unrealized,
to bask
in the alternate glow
and see how
it would shine.
Because the truth is,
the unvoiced cries
are somewhere heard.
In this, I confide.
