little time capsule, full of dust
of bygone days, ground to meal
and set before a table of rabid beasts
prepared to dilute the pulp of your memory
in flasks of tepid water, the spit of ugly words
there will be days when you don’t know
if what you’re feeling wisp against your back
is your unruly disheveled hair
or your creeping sense of despair
there comes a time when the ground reaches far
beyond the grip of your stumbling feet
and you tread air and you tread fire
but you will find no place to alight
is there a place that exists
beyond the uncertainty of flesh?
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