i have an affinity for my scissors.
but i have lost them over the course of many unlikely situations
and now i am searching for them in my desk,
feeling sad, and hopeful,
but knowing in the end, they are gone for good.
but they could never cut
desire away from my mind
nor desolation away from my soul.
so what substance do they hold over
the preponderance of unintelligible concepts
housed on the same shelves of thought
sustained in a hippocampus i call my own.
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