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How can you say we are not the arched backs of our past?
I carry weight with my emptied heart
spilled all over the pavement.

I am the tamped earth, green and rich, just like you.
Where the moss lays is wrongly read,
eaten by time, not ambition.

All in the past, die cut for ornamental holidays?
No, it is a terrifying film reel of
the real life demon in you and in me, too.

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