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If I hurt more, would I be more beautiful?

I have carved entire continents out of this patient body. Still it sings a tune.
If I hurt more, would I be more beautiful?

I line up the answers to a thoughtless question like green soldiers
Marching into that fairydance fog.

There is someplace I want to go. A little further, out of the light.
Why do we keep moving? We are already here.

Everywhere you turn, there are people breathing and believing.
A small girl who disapproves. A morning climbing out of bed.

The arms keep moving, waving, sending an unseen message.
We think tomorrow will be a day we recognize.

That is it. The things we do are things we learned to do.
Maybe not in the same order, but still.

I look for the book, but it doesn’t look like a book.
Hard to find what has no form at all.

What if it has nothing to do with me? What if the answer is only words?
What if the sudden silence never comes?

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