we're all just beating hearts, walking
crowing out
our plight in this morning.
taking revenge on on the disheveled nights of
past
past.
it would be good to be in the past.
after being present.
but we could never be the future, or could we
ever stop our selves
from beating one last time
as these organs
blowing, discordantly into tomorrow
sending thistles and long tangled weeds
to murk the view, bleeding ourselves
as we walk along.
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