88| Horizon

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Maybe the horizons aren't made to exist,
Maybe they're a flaw
Of nature's all even plans,
A realm,
Where you and I can meet,
Maybe a horizon is just a swipe
Of my dusty fingers,
As I trailed away the layers of dirt,
Coating the trunks of my happiness
In the attic,
Between old books and toys,
Sprawled under my bed
As I had said,
To them,
When I tugged them in,
Someone will play with them again,
Maybe the monsters behind the head board,
Would make the doll's hair,
And the old lady in my dreams
Would use my kitchen set,

Maybe the horizon
Is the paintbox that I left in the backyard,
The dry paint in them
Maybe flew to the sky,
Maybe the split in the clouds was too dark to hide,
So they stole my blues and reds and oranges,
To color the wide gap
Between two things,
Like I used to fill the crevices of the walls,
With blues and reds and pinks,
Till my mother called
And said it wasn't right,
The wall didn't mean to be bright,

Maybe the horizon is my childhood,
"Maybe I wasn't supposed to put beef in the trifle",
Maybe I should have known that when the letters,
I wrote to the rain
Became clouds,
The horizon was listening to me,
Maybe I never found what was behind that hill
I ran halfway through and fell the remaining till,
I was half bruised
And my mother said,
Don't you ever go there again
And I got mad and ran
Maybe when I played with the stones,
And clay,
The horizon said,
"Honey, come back home"

Maybe the horizon,
Was the one constant ethereal in my life,
Maybe it wasn't another tendency of nature
To show,
How two meet to become a whole,
Maybe it was a flaw,
Like my childhood,
I'm not sure
If you know what I mean,
But let's say that it was what it was,
It meant something to me.

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