at times, as now,
there is no
magic. only black?
orange glows of sky
in long drawn
out light, slow
as if turning a season,
falling.
some
multitudes, faces,
tits and ass, pass
beyond, yonder
or farther
away, distant
like this
apparent apparition.
some
partitioned mission
to occupy another
space, or time.
but this is not
either of those.
merely
me, or who this
is really is.
possibly, it wasn’t
who you thought,
yet various remains
stain glass houses,
so i throw
stones of forgetfulness.
not remembering
why i try.
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