I think I will be fine.
I think the clouds will likely part.
The tears I held will flow and dry
and crinkle humoured skin alive.
Perhaps it won't
Perhaps I lied and do so still
But fonder is a joy that lies,
Than truth that only kills not heal.
The point isn't to choke the real
The point I fear I do not see.
I flow within an open stream,
with the destination still a whim.
The above poem is for the NaPoWriMo2022. Day 20.
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