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Poem: Snail Trails


we pale ashes of ashes
dashing from fitful dreams
clock startled reluctant
awake by dawn’s eerie light
falling from warm bed into
chill relentless Ouroboros
of being acceptably alive

habitual morning minutia
of ritual archaeological
daily defoliation seppuku
scrapping on razor’s edge
drawing out thin patterns
of quick gliding cuts
shedding time and skin
losing hair and memory
like a snake
renewing
refreshing
re-birthing my charms

these daily sacrificial
exculpatory offerings
leaving neatly behind
tiny flecks of me
everywhere I’ve been
spiral helix markings
proclaiming my passing
from silver reflection’s
daily inner retrospection
meditation
medication
mediocrity
I am what I was
and still cannot see
the slow oozing mark
we each leave trailing behind
in the gathering dusty
detritus of we.

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One response

  1. i remember a sort of scientific article YEARS ago — basically, who ever thinks about earth-worms? and what they do: there’s be almost NO SOIL if it weren’t for the incessant churning and such, all over, gazillions of them …

    Like

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