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On the Face.

You will get it.

Never has it mattered
whether or not
you ever believe it:
it simply is.

Deny it, you just
supply it. More blinding
the light, darker the Shadow,
that wise old man,
Carl Jung, he nailed it.

We live instinct, project
one role, play the other, running
dizzy in circles ’round
this skipping story,
this archetypal record,

a pattern
we could push

passed the known threshold,
break the vinyl, reload
the story, take some time
to fashion
your own rendition,

to sew some of your own
skin on these ancient bones,
possess the myth, steal
the wheel, drive

it in now, cold as steel,
smooth as silk as it slides
on down, irreversibly deep,
to leave an etch of a blade,
an eternal, characterizing
scar, to plant our own flag
at that epic peak
we so passionately seek,

leave our own mark
on the face
of the world for once.


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