Suppose your mind is made
of words that seek the sun
with poison from the soil;
that your sentences
could climb as vines do,
chest high at dawn,
a canopy by noon,
yet come nightfall,
a miasma of
torment and entanglement
must prevail;
that you are made
illusory by our simple
present tense,
even as you have lived
in the past, as invisible
to thought as suffering is.
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