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person walking on stairsit is hard to swallow
just like all the other
times I had to let you
it gets no easier
I just don’t panic
as much
stepping off the ledge
of my best intent
I transform
what is cold
into a form
of gold
poeting how
you weren’t there
this time

I have no lines
to justify
just the sense
of dread
that tastes of ends
reflecting to comprehend
as above, so below
but then come up against
the walls of floes of facts
there is no one
but me
and everyone has so much
to give
if only they dared live
and they are me
and I am them
where do they begin
and where do I end
there is no separation
to ruin’s full effects
in ones and tens
another death yet
a little tiny bit
everything to avoid it
observing the slight
nauseating body
funny how you squirm
reflexively to the
threat of pressure
as if you could
be other than the very
cells that make you
mostly empty
space filled partly
a sack of flesh
is water and stardust
crushed up so
delicate it holds
life’s flow
the moment
that chokes
feels terrible
or just unknown
draping across me
like a beautiful robe
this throne a prison
of pride
and here once again
I’ll die
only to find
the strength
to want again
just one more breath
only means again
and again
one more death
but what is transformed
and who is it
who feels the wanting

riddling impressions
of self
in this being