The light, it blooms,
disentagling
everything.

An empty complexity
stumbles down the block,
drunk on the ideas he thinks came
from
a forgotten dream he had the other night.

The laughter dismisses the truth,
and the light, it still does bloom,
but not for you.

Everyone misses the boat,
intentionally,
and with no concern
for the waves below
which are like bent knives,
sharpened to dullness,
with blood dripping,
decorating the complex emptiness
at the next oasis.

Empty Complexity

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