To the one who endured it all.
Didn't complain.
Sobbed in the crevices of the Soul.
Woke in the middle of the nights
yawning for sleep patterns.
Held beliefs contrary to the popular.
Forgot that the calendar year comes to an end,
because actually it doesn't and understood
Life is a continuous halo sewed
with patchwork of struggles
so intricately worked upon,
no one seems to notice:
a cloth sold in flea markets.
To the one
mindful of the fact that
throes of survival are unpoetic
even when recounted at the year-end
to one's own family and friends.
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