5

If I cannot be contained,

nor framed

or put in a box,

where is the end?

Not with these sorry faces

that only see the light

of day at night,

nor with the crowds 

as they chant for more.

If I cannot feel love,

then what is this?

This lump of coal

that sits, rotting away

at my soul.

If this is the start

of a new life,

where is the end?

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