You know—
the
thing
the
which binds
heaven and earth
and
man
and
everything else
(The Sickness)
pulsing in the stars
shaking the constellations
/ \
monuments to nothing,
really
as the clouds rumble and coalesce
as do we—raining down
wetting the ground with broken
afterthoughts
love of
hate of
When we think of
good
do we
or do
we
(not)
think of
us
?
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