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eyes wide and watery
in front of the data flow;
days just grow into decades now.
let me leave.
let me leave.
let me leave.
the night sky i've been authoring is glaring back.

it ******* better be.
I write to the sound of my demons
pawing at the veil
like stray cats at a screen door.

i find meaning in the breeze
and teeth spit in the sink.

this lines of declaration *******
is tired and contrived,
i apologize.


not alive at all.
this isn't death either.
the next best ether to evolve out of
is probably the farthest away.

so stay for coffee
and exposition.
we all wanna know if all this darkness is fate
or a curable sickness.
B E Ragland Nov 23
all of this is a farm.
B E Ragland Nov 22
we are all plot devices.
B E Ragland Nov 20
but why do we always have to be
writing to or at someone?

mirror talk.
cheer them on until stars die,
all of them.

i wonder if perspectives could be
even more slippery than they
already are?

mirrors shatter in our faces.
blood in the sink.

all of it in all of them.
  Nov 20 B E Ragland
Sona Lachina
There is a stirring
      when one sees with clarity
            what lies ahead --

Edges sharpen, and
      the air pressure drops.
            Trees rustle where
                   there is no breeze;

A wind chime tinkles
      in a desolate place
            and it feels like
                  the end of time--
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