when blood drips from the angry needle,
 do you ask for proof of pain?

when the bitter air blames fire for its burning,
  do you demonstrate with a match?

the train escapes and yet most jump on,
to never learn how and what they missed

for what the fish seeks in the water,
  he imagines himself to be,

and what he regards as nothing,
  has long been inside him

who you truly are
 is where the silence ebbs or flows,
liquid gold or crimson,
you cannot know,

so be quiet, pond,
for the day is still
and the doors are ruptured
letting into this, our sea

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