Know from prior experience intimidating
me in the raw of change
I was dead in the rural enclave, no need
of water or sun, choice or volition
None of it mattered; this made perpetuity
facile.
Yet now, I am moving back to the realm
of the living
I am sensing pain again at the startling
arid wind to cheeks and the bastard slap of hope
Ever so aware I have no parental
cushion; death here is true death
The removal of a life I wish to carry
out
Tendrils will be truncated in any such
peril the tears of aspiration flood
Far more devious than the desert of resigned
apathy
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