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how does a life spread itself thin
elongate to fit holes in existence
stretch itself to the end of a point
and not puncture?

when does a life mar itself
encircle the terms it called once sacred
beleaguer the serif dagger of a word
and enjoy the division?

what makes a thing a thing
clambered-upon, shadows waxing
concealed in the glare of a moonbeam
and a paper-blind sheared?

and where do our points converge?
and where do our ghosts merge?

arbiters would say in the darkness or in the haze.
I would tell them: everywhere but.
©2009 ~ajm490
:iconajm490:

Author's Comments

a prompt spun. "whowhatwhenwherehow" I have a million, but not all of them. i ask questions that aren't unanswered, but whose ends I never endeavor properly.

whatever.

one of those moods.
this should probably be on the blog, but.

whatever.

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If you want to be fortunate in life, connect it to a goal, not a person or object.

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