As I move far from my shadow,
it only seems to close on me more each time;
the moment of standing comes with the grave of a lamb,
and life ends with the sorrow of all left undone.
Gestures only lead somewhere deeply lost,
but the quest is to lose yourself;
though it gives way to a better tomorrow,
the question is — what is worse than satisfaction?
The more you try to answer, every time,
you weave another knot of paranoia.
I know it would never end like this;
but what I want to know is — if this is not the end,
then what is it, and where?
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