Ode To Lucy
Much like a lucid ambient layer—
I find myself floating down to the surface
Into the stratosphere without a care—
Projections about which I cannot repurpose:
Into my own inevitabilities;
Into the oxygen which I cannot breathe.
I sing the shifting dirges of stars
And the pragmatic proselytism
Of the rapists, of reapers and preachers.
But all of them so far have bled the same
And so many more will scream out my name
And none shall suffice as succinctly as
The one who hath passed her judgment
So fast. Posthaste I declare her dead.
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