The banks empty:
Lost, forgotten.
There never was
Anything there.
Could I step once
Over that mount?
Like the prophet,
I fear I won’t.
Ends are certain.
The middles, not.
That is a truth.
Or so I’m told.
I grow too old.
And yet I’m young.
‘Tis paradox.
One dear to me.
If life is flux
And I water,
Then why do I
Now seem to drown.
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