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Warrior in the Garden of Graves.

There is a me far
beyond here, so deeper, so close
in a direction I could never
hope to point

to behind your narrowed
eyes. Cannot convince
me otherwise, for I
remember clear

as ever those dusty dunes
of death, sandstorms, still mornings,
something looming,
foreboding, like vultures
circling, waiting,

for the predictable
after which they will gleefully
peck your bones dry
of all the juicy meats

out in the desert,
wastelands
of my elsewhere.

My proof
to myself that I
can never hope
to escape my hell.

So far, yet carried
within me. Drawn to seeming
fate, so resonant, seduced
by the affinity

for the stage
and the play, just
could use some friendly

advice, for visions,
they communicate:
blinding bright,
yet here I wait.

I must better myself.
Strengthen myself.

Determined, hellfire
burning their way
through my veins…

Secrets, compartmentalized,
histories bleeding, adhesive
and missing pieces.

This is my spiritual 
inheritance (for lack
of less hokey
terms) fresh
from my garden
of graves.

Same story
always, fucking
forever. We all share
this epitaph. Death

finds me despite
the fact
that I feel
its best avoided. 

In every challenge,
there is a trick
to be learned so

as to know
just how
to squash it. 
Despite
every trial, error,

this consciousness
of mine:
it has prospered
nonetheless.

This is my war.
I was meant to fight this.

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