our arbitrary
arrival.
Errant, irrelevant,
entertained by
denial.
Hands used to
hold.
Fingers used to
clutch.
Knuckled turned
to white.
Fists are made
to punch.
Dollars are spent daily
in what looks like
symmetry.
Look closer, you'll see
it's all simple
machinery.
Redoubt, my plough
leaves slivers in
my spine.
Twas always me
that never had
the time.
If fire and brimstone
are how you spend
your days
Maybe mine are better
spent inside a
corn-maze.
I've turned around
and looked to
the rear.
What beckons me
to have such
little fear?
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