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Poem: December Fourth


dull morning
stone cold clouds
flat against the sky
where am I going?

Mary Celeste
was wallowing
abandoned and adrift
on the empty ocean…

why am I here?

where does
our journey end
when there is no time
left inside the clocks
ticking for me and you?
who will write
the ballad of
our simple history
when we also vanish
leaving behind no trace,
not even a note, or clue?

Mary Celeste
kept sailing
long after life
had left her hold
bleeding memories
into the wind…

why are you reading?
why am I here?

where am I?
going
going
gone….

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