I know it is there somewhere,
buried deep in the mists,
the chill, touch of wet on my cheeks,
is not from tears,
though I am just as bleary-eyed,
seeking to fill the vacancy
of that missing place or thing
on the other side,
its spikes stick in my memory
yet can’t be recalled,
as if it has ceased to exist,
or never did,
the last gasp of a late spring
from which the flowers bloom,
just not for me,
all is gray, not quite a fog
yet just as blinding.
I am Oedipus roaming the earth
in search of a truth I may never find,
reliving the guilt of a crime
I never committed.
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