appeal to the dying
appeal to the dying
I am working to a point that is always there I turn and discern it in the heart of the mountain
it appears grey blue burnt ice as indigo as almost black but not quite-
this centre of the circle I restlessly trundle is a compass poised at that exact and irrefutable centre of my wheel and you found it
it is nothing:
it is a tiny hole scratched through white paper it is a gordian-knot in the ring of rope that will break a neck
it is the leaving from bodily-derangement that you could not unhinge your skull from you meander restlessly round its perimeter.
lorn / from lament / and not
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