Doors

slowly evacuate through these chambers of silk-thread, now
radiating glimpses of this
which is so intimate and personal to you, you
would never deny it, and at the same time, as it
shines, it’s not the orb Grandmother gave you, nor
what she meant by its resemblance upon your features, something
we were suppose to grow into in time, while growing
through a class room and then a job which corresponds to our intelligence, and
no, we are not genius, nor tech-savvy nor anything a military-industrial complex can use, while taxes might junk agendas their utility helped us find health-care, which is
what we needed, but now you are gone, and leaving us too soon, and we’re not afraid, the
sensibility registers in the clouds, the weather here has become strange, soon a scar
will arrive where shoes had been fed with the donor of the likes of your mirror, and instead what replaces bones of familiarity with—there will only be a difference of light, which helpful as it is, will be what it is, and everything else may exhume the posture of
what-was, in the yesterday-folds of it, the simply useless now becoming something else
on an infinitely different scale of utility, the decay of what was given, the memories as
their ghosts, with mouths of messages, stuffed flowers if you can hear it—we
cannot keep talking anymore, we are tired of talking, we’ve given you all the doors, they are inside you, it is up to you now

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