Who
are we as the orphans in question,
who
essentially comes from ourselves
yet
abandoned by only answers
before
our ears first hear?
This
question, its own exile,
shrouded
in habits,
slung
in the swings of alibi,
kept
in resins-like memories
as
if reality itself
were
the drug of preference,
self-medicated
right here,
in
a where-we-point-our-flashlight world.
This
question,
by
way of internal remarks
from
a pressing personal and private crowd
of
darken self-figures
vacantly
but incessantly calling out,
from
deep within . . .
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