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what a way to trace a line: wrapping, spinning, twirling like a summer’s sprinkler,
casting seed like ported sailors, hitching heritage to self like some old, rented trailer!
I scratch the itch that is become my skin; perhaps pain more than love can deliver?
alas, my quest for even this small a death is met with life’s scabby rejoinder.
this shell, this cave, this cage – this house is full of coffinfulls of photos, times gone by;
I rifle through them like a thief, then rise
against their memory like a sailor under
Bligh.
what wind blows the aching bounty of my sails? boundless as the sea, some unknown history
drives me onward, fleeing an endless backlog of names (pseudonym for X and Y).
the ocean ends where time begins; I journey there to watch my birth,
see suns and moons collide in earths, behold! all lives share one same death.
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