London Poem: Day 174

7 February

Far away, lives are lived
Without so much as a blink
Of the eye, but eyes can only
See as far as they reach.
What happens here, so it goes,
Is to unfold blindly, but does
It make it less true?
There is too much worry over
Truth and fury, ignoring
The here, while there grows
Into an intangible desire.
Believe it or not, but my
Here surpasses any far off,
Long reaching dream because
Mine exists, incarnate,
Beside me.


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