Curved like sabres,
or ivory tusks,
without beginning
or end;
allow the grip of
your mind’s eye to
eliminate all room
for certainty.

Do not moralise
to me; I am no
object for prodding.
My ratio for living
and dying is in balance:
fit for the part,
but not yet ready
to depart.

Magnificent lands
lie empty;
we cannot consult
the extinct.
Stare fixed ahead,
eyes on the horizon,
never look down
or behind.

Cycling through
the same old mistakes,
only able to learn
when we’re free to fail
for ourselves.
Our lives can’t
dictate the future’s

Rather, we tap into
inner insistence,
the primal urges for
which I reserve
no judgment, and no place
in heaven or hell.
I will not dictate
or foretell.


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