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talking to myself

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There is a yearning in the human heart

Often going without a name,

Experienced as a wound by some,

By others a simple longing.

An inner thirst,


Showing no mercy to the Soul,

Allowing no permanent rest

Since it cannot be owned

But only sought.

This yearning points beyond what we have,

It almost seems that we are also pursued.

That being also yearned for

Is what draws us forward.

Seeking union with that which has no name,

Nor form,

Yet present in the inner emptiness

Speaking of home

A place we know is there

Even though never seen.

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