choreographed youth
left swept under rugs
that span
provincial boundaries
decorative skill
nausea of thoughts
and all of my dignity
all that I abhorred
and held close to touch
repulsive
his figure in my pencil
and I have agreed to
alienate my patterns
q-tip constellations
a dug out hole where
I used to hide
the warm shiny things
where with heat
the minerals grew
from specs
to self blown volcanic pockets
when I become meteors
when I can sense my heat burning dry
leaving my points
remaining anomalous
I
we
and souls of the past
are of aphelion and apogee
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