Lovely,
Bleed life into black ink.
They might be only words, but we find
permanence in transience, because
contradictions are the only logical things.
Anyhow, there's patches of flame on
the sidewalk, where the rain runs clean.
They remain unmuted, and
it's not harmony, but it's close enough.
Let's take it all for granted.
Scrawl sunlight onto white pages.
It might only be illumination, but
we find hope in arbitrary inspiration
and though it might be a train,
we're still walking,
aren't we?
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