my tiny self

at the end of the day,
when hopes born in the morning
have crumbled to dust,
the loom of my heart spins out before me
the failures,
the hurts too deep for even tears to free,
and the sting of foolish words half-intended
that tangle up the long memory of the heart.
lying in that aching state between wakefulness and rest,
I dream myself taking the steps tomorrow
that I’ve already taken today,
the same steps that I took the day before.
I see the marks I leave on this earth
as footprints marking out a small circle in a desert
so vast, my tiny self despairs—
quails, that I must cross it on my own.

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