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What That Light Costs You

There is a quiet kind of rebellion in choosing breath over brilliance.

Each morning waking to the sound of my own pulse tapping against the windows of my ribs, Asking if I'm still here, if I can still name the sky after a night of forgetting. 

 

I used to worship the ticking clock, bowing to its steady sermon of achievement. 

Now time is a spilled jar of ink,

I'm too busy cleaning the stains to write down what I've learned 

 

My mind has become of garden of waiting ambitions,

dreams that have due dates,