What does that say about me,
When all one has is his word and a loose sense,
Of his own identity?
One lives life like a lake, and forever remains,
Where one can find her, though she is not the same,
And one day she may flow out of herself,
And undermine the purpose of a name.
And why not, love is forever but we are not,
But can experience death through change,
And reincarnate till the cows come home.
We just sacrifice any meaningful exchange.
And its alright,
Wandering can be good, though mostly it's bad.
First of all how can anyone find you?
And how can you ever hope to understand?
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