Who taught you how to feel,
to tell the difference from
what is real and what is missing?

And they kept coming, the lessons,
the waves of doubt, the half-light
playing between night and its stars.

The things you believed in, that space
where love grieved, shaping itself
into a body of arrows and knives.

More specifically, the techniques of
being human, effortless as tendrils
of lightening traveling down,

a symbol, a figment, a glowing streak
of destruction or perhaps, just perhaps,
a sign of redemption.

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