July 18, 2016
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I didn’t ask for a prophecy,
didn’t ask for your philosophy
on how my life is supposed to go.
For how are you to know
the fate of “my kind,”
as if there is a tale to unwind
and hate enough to go around?
The ground isn’t a drop away
for the apples to plop such a shortened stray
from the tree.
You can’t define me
with a vision as blinding
as the fission used
to pull me away —
to tear us astray from the world
we played in as a child.
Society is a mild burn,
sobriety from
churning words
unheard through the
fire of uncertainty
and a curtain we
sew of false repentance.

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