In the search
Of the source of an unbroken wariness
The ache of a stifled longing
Can weigh a ton on the great and less
Know that the tape of times past
Cannot be unwound
But the appetite for times yet to come
Will make them a beautiful letdown
So in your pursuit of zephyr
Do not shake your fist at the tempest,
Or let heedless words be fugitive of your lips,
For you know not, how far fly, the shrapnel
No dream is menopausal
As long as there is air in its lungs,
For if you are not impatient
You can harvest the sun
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