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Admissions
When I join myself in prayer
all the survivors; all those still able to bear witness
regarding my twisted way through the moments
and decades come together in the nothing flat
all eager to tell their tales once more.
The dead speak little;
ushering blindfolded angles
lead them into my presence
yet they are reluctant to testify or blame.
The survivors line up ready to spill all the beans
or elaborate upon some minor escape from
a near miss, or a cliff edge pull-back
when I gabbed myself away, not from the fall
but from the hard ground.
I listen nodding like a priest in a confessional box
absolving some, scorning others, dismissing many.
After this séance with myself,
I take an Ambien and sleep
dreaming of a life that once had meaning.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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