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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-06-26 | |
I’m out there, on the gray side of the door
Where there are only particles of me Spun madly by sour winds A monolith chipped off, Its sound obtuseness turned into infinite question marks, The vassal protuberances within a color self-declared, Subscribers to persuasion, All conjured in a fat bouquet under the claims of familiarity They’ve parted ways now Who knows how many cycles until resolving to become new homeland, How many million hours until subscribing to a new convention, And a new definition of my spirit Who knows how much duration of the same old falls Falls from the feudal grace of reference poles? Each I ends locked out barefoot in the cold Driven back to splinters, Splinters that fail to ever find a knot.
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