waiting something good to happen
deep in the winter
and i am awash with
badly construed moribund stories
swallowed
washed-down really
without much of a sense of urgency
lock stock and barrel
we are what we tell after all
in the shallow rivers
of all that was thrust onto us to remember
an abjuration of innocence
naivete really
is all i can afford
we might as well be
what we unscrupulously choose to believe
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