Autumn veers onto the paper
of a life I lived

Who finds my days
to relieve themselves?

Days on this spectator’s
eyes are sore!

The soul of my inken
dirge is fear on self.

Say, I am relieved of
cold fists hitting.

My life is not cold.

Ink is the substance
of tags – tags of –

From inquity your tag
sings another life.

All men hav e a waiver
on this satin proof.

The wall is battled
over the tags – five billion.

The drive is not over
past (lines) hues.

The drive is Pyramid to
Sulliavan in Reno.

The science of induction
will prove my guilt.

I have pledged twelve
as (if) they were part of the
Twenty-four elders.

Of these books I write.

The hold is opaque
and sticky – from the tags,
but a revision of our past.

The soul has this imprint –
The spirit is strong.


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