Late (Poem)

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Always

Stringy just stretching

Way too thin

Reaching

Way too far

Searching

For the guiding warmth from some distant star

Ever on the horizon

Never within grip

Always it lies on

Some surface from which it’s too easy to slip

So the muscles  they tense and they strain

Just for a radar blip

The burning of sinew and brain

Now it is late

And I find no respite

Nothing will sate

The thirst for the light


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