Ode to LOST

Dust behind the leaves

Of trees that will never

Become blank papers.

This is not real,

Or is it?

We have given up

Trying to find two wings

To take us back.

Clouds, tying questions to the floor

Like stones in the sea depth;

There are pieces left

In this puzzle

Made of our own flesh.

Numbers that control

And keep our dreams,

Numbers that have left

More than a fisher

In the sea.

Doubles, copies

And the living dead;

Some of us decided

To have another self.

Rain that covered us

From the rough air;

Wash our dirty clothes,

Our dirty souls.

At least here we have the chance

Of becoming who we always were

And will not be again,

Or will we?

Hidden past, open minds,

Dirty eyes, broken arms, and legs.

And fire.

The sea cleans our sins,

Those that brought us in here.

Then, the sun, running behind

The perfect line,

Does not want to know

Anything

And gives us a night,

Or two, or three.

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