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No Investment.

Desperate fingers
reach out, worming ’round
for something vaguely
secure.

Just a single
fucking star

to guide
him through inner
and outer wars. So bruised
and broken,
so dark —

like a cloudy
night in a clearing
in the forest,
those cross-hatched
lacerations. Any good

sense, he would have given
up a thousand

miles back
when he suddenly
remembered he left

the oven
on, but no:
that blind
determination.

Now he wanders
in the dark, wary
of reaching out,

holding. Never
can seem to find
faith in himself. How
in the hell

could he invest
in anything, trust
anyone?

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