When I finished all I had left was time on my hands.
The picture melted out like the art of Salvador.
A trick I fell for, cape of a matador.
Maybe that or- perhaps I was wise the whole time?
Entrenched in the image of failure, my sole crime.
And if the fright of night is what keeps me moving towards the light,
I would keep the darkness close and never let it leave my sight.
-miguel
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