(73 degrees) (23:26pm) (Facing East)
A pain, and now fit.
Tripping over ill-matched tracks.
Once upon the rails,
Flowed, flawless.
But some derision,
Rips past and far-afield.
This pull, this fret,
And bloodied hands.
Climb and stumble back.
But missing.
But black/ and not a sound.
No post of welcome.
Now barriers to going back.
She murmers,
He waves-
In shadows, across
A shorn field.
We turn, we walk.
We do not speak,
Down these seperate paths.
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