by what can i do
if i can’t wait for you?
i was a traveler in an antique land.
you were a story that you told me.
like the sun, i used to touch your hair.
in the sandstorm of my
mind, you are a cracked and
crumbling Ozymandias,
ruined tyrant, just standing, just so
very still.
i’ve broken every fingernail on
your roughened, roughening
edges. i made you so beautiful, so
cold.
by A.J.
Our Own Words 
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