Conducting listless currents of self-doubt

can be as shocking as voltaic cables in a flooded warehouse…

Is this test of livelihood dwindling toward demise

or of organizing thoughts to align sparkling resonance?

Why this rough stucco texture life?

Paint splatters, ink blots, scattered plots?

Some endearing  lightheart haunted by heritage of duplicity?

Questioning questions, wishing wishes, answering opaque sentences?

Can I hear translucent? Can I see mellow?

Waiting for time to rewind into future

so I can begin where I left off…

 

 

 

 

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Waiting around

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