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Marlow

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I have walked the paths that dead men trod.
I have seen the foamy crowns of waves rise up and claim heroes.
Felt chill winds sweep the dust from the ground
to fill the folds of my clothing with foreign soil.
A memento? It is unwelcome.
I followed the road through primitive worlds, mangy dogs panting in my wake,
watching with their yellowed eyes, flies rising in whirlwinds
from patchy coats. Wondering.
I have been in the glade of shadows.
I know what it is to wait for Death as a Redeemer. (Come quickly, kinsman.)
I am driven by dreams as old as the lines
that mark my cheeks
That mark the map.
There, where once was only blank parchment.
It is nearly full now, but I seek
that solitary empty patch.
Ah! Here.
I raise mine Ebenezer,
and press my knees into the dirt to consult the filled-in scroll.
The world has crowded in smaller around me,
and I greet its shrinking borders:
Draw me to your heart
and then close me deep within.





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