Sitting here, inside this chest, evolved to
An infant, curled up left out in the meadow
Asking, calling, wailing to endue
Who has the last piece, the key embow.
Erased memories, rekindled at every sight
Of him, of him, no not Him, brushed off,
Swept under transparencies at night,
The Moon creeps slowly out, preying but soft.
To what end, has the one brought me here
Just to find a reason to go back
Further and deep into forest, near
The narrowed path to follow though I lack
A thousand words, and countless stars, I give
This second hand, to the Sun, I live.
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