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Wrong, Forgotten?

By
dripping like the ooze of our afterwards,
the torpid calm of bed entrenched, but so transient
is the truth that never really wars
with its
opposition;
the physical fuel, spent, relent;
this capitalization of thoughts in thinking wells, ours;
what wary announce of those faces
dead to memory, no, only touch,
only the wavering constant of "here now"
not a swirling, mixing, but simply appearing;
successions to be counted, remembered
in lines resembling chains; deleterious continue,
never meant for removal;
eraser inevitable, a very much yes,
but the recollection disbanding charm
is not ours to find, to use,
so purely and readily
like the rational actions of, “thank you brain
for complying with my thoughts
that called for moving lips
to reshape a kiss.”

Dripping like the ooze of our always;
the glimpsing of the
Older alignments.





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