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Tommy Randell Aug 2018
up though concrete bursts the ****
driven to escape the earth
a young white worm breaching into clear air

back down into the brain digs the worm
baring naked the roots of things long dessicated
the cause and causations of ontic self deceptions

there is ****** in there and ****** more
philosophies of blaming one's self for it all
the corruption that sits everyday on the back of the tongue

there is self harm and insightful immolations
trapped in the fossil scars of cigaette burns
borne like trophies from some childhood war

as some thoughts need the light of day
Love batters like a moth
against the dark windows of it's soul
There is no explanation for this.
M Padin Oct 2013
The black chair sits
in the garden,
selfsame shadow.

The mirror is

Humans are:
humans are, that is,
For Paul Celan.

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

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