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if the skies will not have me
these dead grasses hold
my body,
peel around my pale arms, curl around
my legs
I lie within the shards of green blades, letting them
cut me and slice away at
my mind,
and the sky grows dark with fury at the
injustice of my
fate,
but the clouds’ arms are not long enough
to wrap me in cool tendrils
of morning
mist,
and alleviate my slow-going demise
that the hungry earth
has allotted
me,
they enwrap me in prickly vines and thorn-speckled
flowers, beautiful because of their
wickedness
and I can all but lay there and accept it
because I was born of
the dust
and to dust I will
return,
lest the skies adopt me as one of
their own, then I
will have found another
home.
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