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As the World Goes On
On days like these, I like to see the world blurry.
Where all the colors smudge, revealing a dirty canvas.
It reminds me that we are all just numbers responsible for turning the broken hands of time.
We are just clumps of wet snow that melts persistently on a dark, wet sidewalk.
We are nothing special.
Just shards of glass, scattered about a dusty floor.
With hearts that have been wrenched from cold bodies.
And all the love in the world has resigned back to its cold, black box.
We are just figurines.
We are just furniture.
We are just place holders and book marks for something more.
And while we sit idle by
Glinting in the streetlight
Hiding in the shadows
Being "just"
The world goes on.
But please someone tell me who put us in charge of turning this planet, because I don't see how it happened.
We are nothing special.
And still the world goes on.
And we rise
And we eat
And we rest
A never ending cycle of bore.
And the world does go on.
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