This is my long, narrow day,
heavy life, a sponge soaked
with water, salt & blood.
I drag my bones towards
dusty night; how dead
is dead enough?
Let those who understand
the phantom soul captured
in its shadowed house accept
its sadness. True, it's doors
are made of glass and we
of bodies, of darkness.
And I, a little horse and cart,
a road of whitened bones with
no end in sight.
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