There is so much we don’t need.
So little, to live.
One large pocket will do
Drunk on the always-going-forwardness of now
The past is a tethering weight and
memories are a fine powder
begging tears. Obligations are the cold front
vexing the arctic squall
which leads to an inevitable assault
of crushing barometric pressure.
The dust of what remains and rain
become mud: viscous, congealing
akin to rock
that build a jailing home
and cardiac arrest.
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