to stumble awake in a boat made
for you, to carry you where?
adrift on your death
and to the whims of the wind
the waves, they say,
i told you so

so you just keep moving on
to the next, 'til the next one too is gone
until each day
dessicates into the grave
bore by your pace

even if we
do not know
what it means
i see in me
the blemish of leaves
of twigs
of tress
of glass
of rain falling
on the grass
outside my head
and i say goodbye
to that which i
never had
to that which i
never said

where to now you hear yourself ask
hear yourself like a folding chair collapse
the mask you cannot wear
gives up, goes home
to the stare
awaiting you in the

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