I (still) am

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There is a bleeding animal somewhere.
Its shrieks haunt me at night when the tone of
A gunmetal, blurry existence fades to blackness.
I am frozen.
Is it possible to burn to ashes those-1:1 degree-
Stilted, fruitless papers,
And warm up to the countless hours
Of throbbing focus, lost sleep, languid limbs,
Clueless youth, wilted hopes
Crowded within?
I have come a subtle way.
Not long, as narrow.
If I were brave, I would legitimate that lack of truth.
I could possibly cauterize the hemophilic wounds
That dig their shallow meaning of wastefulness
Around the tiny cells, deposits of codified
I am doleful and sagacious.
Crafty artistic condition, the crumbs of its frustration
Stumble, at daylight, the creativity.
Is there such thing as shattered and wet
Yet functional dragonfly wings?
Green, plump, greedy, visible caterpillar.
You crawl as a beetle on a ball of fecal
On this path of unpromising ascension.
When the arrow pervades the marrow
It’s better to leave it untouched.
Unadorned with the anxieties that it implicates.
There is a raging beast out there.
It promises me a utopia when the flatness of my belly
Instigates the disclosure of my gingival grin.
I am potent.

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