consider the fall
off the cliff, off the cuff,
like old, faded tattoos,
feathered letters blending.
time blurs—
past, present, future,
not clear dots but ripples
in a man-made lake,
like a man-made diamond,
too perfect to be real.
nearly a decade and a half,
I remember the dead,
pristine, flawless,
clarity immaculate,
while my skin and body
and mind are a waning
moon beside a comet,
tails touching,
morphing into a
cosmic body that doesn’t exist
except for here.
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