shoulders

like a manic windmill; winding and wailing, i begin a descent and fall into the lives of others.  i caution the wind and it blows anyway…sometimes harder than ever before.  but with a rush upon the windows, i breach my own cautious mind and deliver myself into a failed sunlight whose darkness wields no uptake; no deliverance of evil; no pardon for the penchant of wild emotion.  i carry on my shoulders a siamese cat and though she shivers in the cold, i cannot make her warmer.  she makes herself warm in her own way; in her own time. 

they only figure rightly, she says.  they only catch you napping, she says.  they only take you down, she says.  we cannot walk but around and around, she says.  and so i carry my ax and sword.  and so i carry my charms with which to be stolen against.  i wield my ways of worry and i breathe and i smile distinctively. 

how can it be?  how can it be?  when the merchants aren’t selling anymore.  when the passersby don’t buy anymore.  we all need to take a step back and stop trying to fall up the shores. we need to remember we all remember differently.  we need to find the truth of a past which passes us by. 

it’s repeating, she says.

it’s repeating, she says.

high ground, she says. 

high ground, she says.

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