unwritten

dying opera

junk muscles

but i will carry on

by unburdening myself of a past,

i will conger a future

of resplendence

by virtue of my soft, circuitous will

i will bare my feet in your garden

i will edge my teeth along the skin of your life

and make you feel every

bee

stung

breath

held

moment

of me infused by you

infused

released

and lifted

our admixture:

a song, a stretch, a story

that will be heard

and felt

and known

if

on the oversight of the archivists

unwritten

 

 

 

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