I come to understand time in a sense as Emily Dickinson would have.
Dawning upon this realization, as old and yet new every sunrise.
I taste social waves more than ever.
I’m on the bandwidth of autism’s radio station.
I’m thirty years and two steps behind the nightfall.
The arising of originality.
You cannot look back to the plow of yesterday;
For heaven is ever onward, ever head-over-heels.
There isn’t anything offered by the days gone by.
For in a backbone of glass, there is a second glance;
And not being a suitable Ambassador of God.
It isn’t limitless sting…but the new domain I stomachache for.
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