It happens,
in simple moves,
for complex wants.
When the dirt
buries your eyes,
could you still see?
Can you believe
the length
of such wounds,
some mortal,
others minor.
You burn through
the pages
to get to the end,
where your ghost
thrashes about,
without limbs.
This fear compels
your ambition
to elevate
the blood,
the flood.
This state determines
your anticipation
over the years
that follow
from below.
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