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M311.

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I sit,
back pressed
against the old oak.
Legs crossed in meditation.
Mind emptied of contemplation,
waiting instead
for words
sublime.

A gentle voice,
more like a whisper,
speaks directly to my soul.
An angel, perhaps, sings of a place
(to me, yet unfamiliar)
in blessed words (from somewhere else)
of dreams, fond reunions
far from ravages
of time.

A place
where (someday)
I’m meant to be —
a place I’ll find my home,
my destiny.

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