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Survivor

We were grappling with this dichotomy
of when old we are, just waiting to taste
flinted fire and lifeblood in the darkness.
We’re part of some incorruptibly perverse procession
scrubbed squeaking shining
soft shaven slow
shimmering smooth, scalped
souvenirs of something suffered. We
starved for this, died
for this. We were generals and
foot soldiers, but not cavalry. We never
rode wild on the plains. We did not sing.
We carved letters into birch trees,
snowy grey, the color of our
corruptible souls already corrupted,
dragged through the sand. We wore scraps,
chameleon colored just to dip
our feet in fire,. But this is not survival.



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Zoe O. said...
today at 3:50 am:
This is beautiful! You have an incredible gift, the words in this poem just flow and the part about soldiers is so artistic and rhythmic and i am speechless and battling to type. thankyou.
 
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