Do not let the blinks fly away while the sun is still in the
middle of its ritual. Of cleansing colours out of everything and transferring
steady depth to anything that stands still long enough.
Lines of mirages held down low.
Insensible mutters left adrift.
Teach me how to-
No. Don’t. I realized I know already.
Just stop the whirring inside, the constant karma of intangible webs.
And take back your scythe from me, please. And your gallows.
And your sacks and chalk and axes too blunt.
Welcome back, old friend, to home where you belong.
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