Epiphany By Vivian Spendley Waiting, watching, wishing, a search for inherent meaning; Nothing out of place but still, something palpable is missing. I feel it between my fingers, encroaching upon my skin; I itch, I pine, I wonder, and wander, ferocity within.
Why must I be called this way? What more could I be doing? Enthralled by facets beyond the earth, a thirst of unequivocal knowing.
Outside of my body, outside of my mind, fused to a core whose origin I can't deny; I seem to have unearthed the source of my vacancy, for it lies within my source, not within me.
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