The force

I am, unto my self, a non-logical axiom. Twisted, hard and slow. Damp and cold. Wasting around my knees.

I am here. Holding together. In the face of winds blowing up against me. I cover my face with wool scarf and hope for a sudden miracle.

There are two of me. The rising and the falling. Sometimes I do not know which one comes and goes, whispering in my ear, oh friend.

I construct fear because I want. Fear because I need. And when it arrives again with shiny sentiments. I just might...scrape away.

To know what I am offers no solace.

Just calm-like complicity.

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