Small moments of tiring descretion,
harmonies of historic despair,
seem to linger between the glass.
Behind the viel of my own
immoral self pity,
the clouds seem to fade behind the sun,
if only for a moment.
many fine moments,
written in the gazes of longing,
broken sonnets lingering in the stale air.
Conversations of nothing,
dancing around the hope of everything,
one moment of clarity amidst the fog's viel.














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