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Stumbling around upon some friends of late and ones once lived in the distant past
watching them go by like ghosts or angels, mere heart-chewing animals and fiery demons
no one can touch mine; I’ve too much preserved who it is—the world cannot touch what’s mine
I walk and watch, snarling dogs and hungry hyenas gathered around the dying stock—
no more lions to rule a jungle; a true jungle of man has always been run by itself;
the ones who die wait for the quarrel upon their body and the last drop of blood to end
till they smell their own flesh going foul like a fruit left rotten dying on top of a tree
scarecrows all around, for none that flies can come near, and hell to those in the undergrowth.

Stumbling upon the rotten bodies of my friends, I have finally found my way to the top;
I have never killed anyone, but death just passed like wind under my boots,
if like some fresh air, I stalled the choke a little more for it to come too late
or if like a hurricane, I stepped away from a body that mistook my foot for an anchor;
too heavy a ship in the middle of the storm; to go on, I had to let them go
for not being a Christ, I have been crucified every day for not carrying the cross;
a shame they blame me now for their being prostrate, helpless, unable to change
when all I’ve done is stumbling upon them, watching and stepping on my way.

February 8, 2016

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