dust bidden and stronger for it
with arm muscles wide enough to carry 
the coastal world upon untired shoulders, 
an indefatigable grin lightly on the brow. 
Yet be it that a swooping wasteland  
came to knock the rubber right off her 
rampaging, unlimited upon the full scope 
of the soul. Broken. Sorely borrowed.
To become cowards in moments like these
is the real pity. To raise the chin once more 
and begin again is no effort at all; there is 
no chagrin in the epilogue of a victim. 

A million minor ways to shift the passage 
of events, and yet none to shift so the mind. 


From Articulated Soul, Rozell 2020.

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