There are evens,
and then there are odds.
Though, what is odd to some
may be even to others.
Between the rights
and the wrongs,
of that which is short,
to that which may be long.
Of the beginnings,
and of the ends,
sometimes an up, but
most times a down,
to the sky above, and then
to the ground below
to where I am lost,
until I am finally found,
though still alone.
I try to find the evens
between all the odds,
but all I could find
were the stars in the sky,
And I suppose it makes sense,
the even and the odds,
how one cannot exist
without the other,
how happiness cannot thrive
without sorrow by its side.
And how death seems to come,
only to those who were once
alive.
The evens and the odds,
the ups and the downs,
the lefts and rights,
the darkness and the light;
all seem to shine so very bright,
until the very last night.
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