All That Lives Long

When the ash was cast onto each of

 my boots, I should have known.

The quill, dripping deep black,

intent with the ink of the

Everywhere Spirit

In the penmanship of one who

fills in the blanks before

the words are spoken:

All that lives long

are the earth and

the stars.

Though we may be of the same

charm, the same strange

dust, I must recall my

own realization that

I am but little more

than quantized

quarks

 I’ve come to know my respective rosette

which renders me repugnant, wretched

reduces me simply to a fool, with

locomotive eyes that despise

my likeness, assuming some

guise in odd, outward,

ostentatious

places

How could any two truly argue about

who cares more about the other?

 The question – for me – has

now become something

entirely different:

Do I really need

you, or do I

just think

I do?

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