Parting Ways

A million fresh suns,
have made their way,
into our remote feet.

The red mud, wet,
and about to dry,
and fly away.

The wind is frothy,
and my mind sings,
to what my past is trying to pull out.

Let them wash my feet,
the shores, they are distant,
and they seldom visit.

Fear not,
for the present is shorter,
than the epic of the past.

I'm tired of this sweet weight,
That you put,
upon my calm, unerring shoulders.

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