this is not pure
poetry with an end
the horizon smears
blood flowing to the sun
the holy chalice
the sun is our graveyard
the receptacle of our souls
our spaceship to the
end of time
this is diluted
push the moment away
in all directions
it tears impatience into
our spherical past,
our conic future
forming a time glass
in a winter globe
no escape for the sand
only a readjustment
of pressure
(that's you--
I am losing
the picture)
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