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A hidden opening in gloomy reality,

a dreamy narrow passage

leading away from

unwanted lives

overcrowded by ghosts of failed relationships,

is that what we are to each other?

Could it be that ours is merely

an undemanding illusion of belonging?

 And i wonder why am i scared

to loosen the desperate grip

and let go this desert mirage

made of things that will never be.


Red Square in Moscow
Fedor Yakovlevich Alekseev (1753–1824)
Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

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