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Feb 2011
Brown grassy mountainsides;
full of yucca and sharp burs and
stripped-naked trees.

(Your buffalo have all been murdered, America.)

atop this vertical precipice, the edge
of everything that’s never been,
before a white and faceless
Void: the sore thumb of a
boulder. A gray and
ancient troll.

There sits a changed and stoic
stranger wrapped in a wool blanket
against piercing winter wind and frost.
Sharing my thoughts. My organs. My perch.

Walking along this trail…
there can only be death.
I check my silent moving
watch. Time to turn back.
Written by
Jarred R Kamin
1.0k
   sarayu, --- and ---
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