DOLEFUL ENIGMATIC
MATTER
Uncle, father, daughter, son - each
of these things matters to one. Yet, to
see past all that is to really reach a
fulfillment. We are selves, and selves
alone each we remain. Like the wind
here, cutting my face, objects pillaged
of shape and design are flying past.
No connection to be made, I nonetheless
try telling myself that I recogninze these
things : powers, shapes, and pointed
settings by which we recognize the
mold of time. Imprinted like fools, we
continue striving. I walk this wandered
waterfront, sure and sorry of my own
being. In time, I too shall be replaced.
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