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  • I always carry two pens
    in case one runs out of ink
    and I am caught
    a way to finish a thought
    on paper...
    they always finish, don't they?

    Sometimes they finish
    clay on a potter's wheel
    asymmetrical vases
    like the one
    you made your mother
    in kindergarten
    when the smiling teacher
    tried to teach you skills
    and your thumb
    pressed deeper
    than your fingers.

    Sometimes they finish
    lines on parchment
    like Escher's sketching hands
    or etchings by an
    undiscovered painter
    long gone, forgotten,
    never knowing
    he or she was loved.

    It's hard to think
    of all the moments
    until time and someone
    doing research
    finds the evidence
    of passion
    locked beneath
    the dusty covers
    of a book left in the stacks.

    Hard to imagine
    we would ignore
    the beauty of each other
    preferring to embrace
    the horrors
    of our deepest fears
    clinging to misshapen vases
    of our past.

    Our pasts are over
    lost in the endless seas
    of time eroded
    by the waves
    of circumstance
    swirling endlessly
    in currents
    never to be felt again

    today we lie upon the beach
    of destiny
    grain after grain
    connected, interwoven
    shaped by unseen hands
    into the castles of imagination
    soon to be eroded
    by the winds of fortune
    and the sea of time.

    Thoughts are never finished.

    They evolve
    in one direction
    or another
    on the thoughts
    or the ones
    you leave behind.

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