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In the light I find flecks of darkness

Morning shows streaks of promise

But then it all gets smudged and blurry           

Like a painter with worn out brushes

Splattering colors on a seasoned canvas

Broken inside and creating something in a fury

Like a sculptor wakened up before the crack of dawn

Sticking his hands in the lump of clay

I am driven by something maybe madness

Perhaps vision of something not yet seen

There are good days

There are bad days

The ones most unsettling are the ones between

 

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