smudged

a thousand flights,

of worn-down stairs,

of hymnal bells tolling,

of careless bodies,

a forgotten memory,

no more than a mere

smudged imprint in

the edifice of a tower

overlooking everything—

and until then…nothing.

.

day in, day out, cycles;

in rapid gyroscopes of

existences so barely free,

almost; not freely, out of control,

spinning, revolving, rotating.

until then, those thousand flights,

once holding melting footsteps,

a clamour that praised each sunset,

and even a few reckless bodies,

now holds back ire history for them.

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