Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Begging isn’t for the sun. It moves like you, in perfect patterns and without stray focus. Indifferent to choice or chance. And you are brighter still, but I am the swallowing black of night and a stab to the core of land. Oceans will churn under your Heaven flight, in your wake are days where actions are mute as the quiet reach of calm tides. You can’t feel the wet touch of cold need. You’re cascading above in the mother’s sky. And I drown and bury in the father’s shore, the mud of my reget choking me to sleep. Because viewing the sun is to expose the sins of my nature, and her light casts a shadow too heavy for my feet to bear.  (at Under)

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