Bones
A sense of marching upward.
Onto my bones, they grasp.
As if my bones are vines.
Ants marching upward.
They take everything.
Except my brain, but they will, just let them take their time.
The rising continues.
Like smoke, but smoke is outside, this is inside.
It’s just one of those things.
Ants, bones, or vines.
It’s just…
I’m too tired to explain.
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