The same.
Mundane.

Two years to make
all they tried to take.

I’m not of a name.
Not of a line, or it’s curve.
Nor the force bearing us down.
My origins awake to a dream
masked in the slumber of another.
I fall out of blindness
Into neither day or night.
Not of body, not of mind

The split in me
Is one you make.

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