An urge always exists to relive our days,
Wind back the clock to observe selves
Reliving regrets in silent movie frames,
No color to our lives. Instead, we tiredly
Move as underworld shades physically mute
To the past pain of thoughtless words that we
Cast on others like reams of sticky cobwebs,
Magician forming in those days the tomorrow
Template that clings like foul smoke.
Our present, beads of spit, oil, sour tastes
Tilled from that salted earth.
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