that is not it, at all


I don’t want to make clear
nor plane
the rugged terrain
I’ve trudged through
Even if just to taste the remains
of others’ spoils

I’d rather teeter, trip and shatter
on the rubble of my illusions
Than dissolve what really matters
into idle chatter
While waiting in the sidelines
to wave T.S. Elliot’s refrain
As if that could forgive or explain
The dry dirt that spurts forth
when I try to whisper
a word worthy of praise

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