the dyingthe dying of the eye that lifts mercury myth above slow encounter is a clock’s breath a last childish prayer fuming at the counter
resting on saturated pillows where sallow reefs no more leave contentions good dead bye in hallowed eye on to that skirts circular bends with ways of no defense – toil-tools and terror –
wasting lifetimes and dreams begins with folly boiling blood youth and aftermath pale on the whiteboard wanting dark funerals and mad pyres
so time it seemed concurred with essence or its consecutive in law ways of doing the right thing in the right eye by contemporary standard
the I and its rolling against the turbomilitant instead of I do not is such a crowd dare to the insignified dying to here solidify alert beside the incongruous of a not I
I am not the I nor the you beside me I am the eye
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