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To the World

I’m writing poems to the world
to the flying
to the found
to the simply fading sound
of every word that’s ever spoken
to the broken
to the hollow
to the brink of no tomorrow
to the path we meant to follow
‘till the edge of no return
I’m writing poems to just hardly
to the nothings
to the loudness
to everyone who’s proud that’s
ever roamed this space
to the safe
to the open
to the one lost game board token
to someone barely coping
with the love they’ve had to earn
I’m writing poems to the sideboards
to things painted
to the tired
to the pulse inside the wires
that keeps the lighting hot
to what’s taught
to what’s not
to the slippery sideways thought
that the paper never burned
I’m writing poems to one half of
to graffiti
to the hopeful
to the sign still blinking boastful
giving fame another go
to the slow
to the wonder
to the thing that’s hidden under
all the leaves still left unturned
I’m writing poems to the world
to the answer
to just breaking
to the one that’s undertaking
when the undertaker’s gone
from the edges
from the outcasts
from the shine that never outlasts
the day set in the atlas
the last day you think you’re done
from the girl who stole the sun
from the last, lost dreaming one.



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