Calluses on the mind. The hardness of memories.
Prevalent from much erosion and much form.
Time Pummels to a Pulp.
Collects to a mound.
From the floor to my heels,
With eyes viewing only the life within ovals.
No more. No Less.
Combing the outside with lengthy gander,
in search of ethics.
Through exploration, a fatigue can be cured.
Cured by the sound of a new heart beating.
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