sitting with cold feet
i start drawing lines that help me make sense
when i seek and when i dont find an eye.
its my first time,in front of
he who arrives and sits far away,makes me arrive.
and we sit here in front of him as unknown people on a trip and as known souls trying to dwell in own hearts.
echoes to pierce
my lines become invisible...
and eyes moist.
i dare to look into his eyes when i bend to touch his feet.
i only dare for a moment.
but is it all about finding the eye?
if it is, i will stop making sense.
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