mirrors on the fallen snow
reflecting where you'd like to go
and what you'd be if you could know
the narrative that makes it so
windows in the sky with eyes
exposing soporific lies
and passionless dramatic sighs
whispering goodbye
there's no fortune bright enough to make you
and there's no moonbeam light enough to take you
or any hammer strong enough to break you
unless you start it all alone
doors that lead to empty rooms
welcoming as wood tombs
promising the end of gloom
not all what you'd assume
douglas brent smith 1974/2023
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