Sunday, May 28, 2017


We are so small
With our conceptual high rises
Hovering over the heavy air

Our eyes too blurry
To focus on anything beyond
Our own little personal bubbles

And the air smells like magic
With distant chatter and indistinct laughter
Dispersing into the atmosphere

But we, in our individual selves
Are only specs of dust
In this great old suburban desert
Waiting for miracles to happen

But miracles only happen to
Those who make them happen

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