eight greats ago one died in a storm on the high seas i never understood why i have this irrational fear of the ocean perhaps i am remembering a genetic retelling of blood archives

exit this way

all the strings attached and here I am, running with scissors and trimming along the edges I stand peering into the void (all the while knowing it’s looking back) not beyond help these ropes thrown into the pit fashioned into ladders snakes suddenly surface and games are bored to play

real life

we wake, throw the covers back produce sweat, tears, dust and laundry repeating the endless repetition of putting back into place that which has been disturbed recreating scenes out of magazines (within our means) adjusting that one crooked picture frame & bringing life back into alignment

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