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Lapping from the Lethe. 

Down on wounded, still bleeding
knees, head held
to a bow, forced
to lap from the Lethe
like the rest 
of the dead:

the river
that does not reflect
your image back.

So much for saving
face.

It shows you nothing
or, worse, it shows you lies.
Once an amnesiac baptism, now
it transforms
into the soul’s asphyxiation.

Forget this forgetfulness.
I want to gulp from Mnemosyne
this time
with such intensity:

I shall work my way
through the chaos
and cacophony.  

Sure, this means
recalling all and everything:
fuck it.

At least
I’ll have Me.
Be Me.

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3 responses to “Lapping from the Lethe. 

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