All this fuzziness astounds me ;
warmed up from the soul and told
(under no uncertain terms) we’re
destined to die the martyr
in due course.

But not now—perhaps.
At least until the sun goes down and
the ants cease their ant-nibbles and
the cricket boys back go to bed.

(Then, I have seen it usually to follow,
the rising crimson and the re-pawing of sensation
and the ping of wing against wing.
Born out of darkness,
the darkness is essential.)

The world is openly hostile &
completely disarmed, simultaneously ;
all samples of projections that
cast their hazy shades upon my blank erratic sheet.
The days linger—and all we’ve ever had is
imminent rebirth.


 

 

 

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