29

Gentle pitter patter of light and wave
push me back towards home on the concrete blocks,
the rhythm like worksongs- I was a slave;
At least in spirit, or essence, that “rocks”:
Like a lullabye winds down the spirit
of an infantile complex with selfhood,
so I do shake and shudder to hear it,
that voice from the depths of our personhood:
Hard rhyme, cold blues, they all sit together
at the table to break bread into chunks
of scattered pieces and shattered tethers,
between this world and yours, where “fact” debunks:
But who am I really addressing here?
I woke up with a start – there was no fear.

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