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Silver linings and Insignificance

Tissue-paper irises ringed with
an alcoholics rusted lining
(as Fates pot of silver
paint was padlocked firm)
flit from the clock-hands to
the sky at compulsive
intervals.

The skyline wavers blunt and sharp,
darkness tipping the scales.
As grass stems rock me in their
softly swaying hammock,
I feel weightless.

My green glass bottle lenses
illuminate specks of distant light.
There is something breath-taking
in being insignificant.

Something that unleashes
the silver lining.
Written by Scribbler12
Published
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