It’s funny, how they spin —
as if the sun wouldn’t shine
through an open door;
as if light won’t penetrate
through their cracked machination.

Walls always crumble —
whether by tide, time, or force —
into shifting sand;
wide open wilderness
unfolding its Truth.

We inherit ourselves.

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I guess this will be one of those days where I work on me and let the poetry stand by itself.

Just give in to the light.