Not the First Time

This is not the first time
I’ve clambered up the steps
Into some somber retreat.

Within ill fated stars,
I sit wrapped in shrouds
With weather-worn feet.

This is not the first time
I’ve let a friend down
To sit by the sea

That ebbs and flows
And pools and swirls
In the crux, of me.

This is not the first time
I’ve inhaled the dark
In a vacuum of color,
And bled from my eyes
A downpour of Silent, unloved art.

This is not the first time
I’ve ventured this far
Into these hills of ink,

Where all is certain,
And all is reversible,
Every time I blink.

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