A cog in a clock, spindly outreaching arms
cling upon my flesh. The typical martyr
of out damned spot - so quoted is this
partnership. Slip below the navel, nothing
citrus about it, although I'm told
taking my vitamins will help. I keep close
the blocks of DNA, and poetry, where neither
seem to solve much of anything.
Empty minutes - face the timepiece - yawn
their way across my forehead. I am branded
with the presence, with the implications,
and I resent it as I resent not being gifted
and being it, too. I am still myself,
I am still here, and I go for the same rate
as I did yesterday - although you might
be one to disagree. Surprisingly, you say.
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