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Permanent

don't you know that when you toss that pebble
in the water, ripples will bloom across the surface
for the morning, before their glory withers?
because it is glory, for whoever tossed the stone,
if not to the disgruntled fish below.

and it's always relentless, isn't it?
like a pair of lovers rattling the bed
falling back for breath, sweating, at it again
like mother warning you not to get a tattoo
because those damn things are permanent.

ma, did you forget that my skin will rot
in the grave? sixty something years doesn't
seem so permanent anymore, does it. if we were
evolutionists me and my tattoo would be lost
in the difference of an estimated time gap, along with

seventy million others. Not very permanent at all.
suicide pains barely one generation. the
vilest sins lose their sting in history's wake.
look at the lake, serene and smooth,
where are the ripples? where is the stone?



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