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Seeds & Zombie Hands.

You see the shell and, judging
me as a whole on that shallow basis,
assume that it is my true skin:
that the vessel is essentially empty,
that this is all that I am,

not something more akin
to my true nature,
the hermit crab, oh no:

this is simply, for now,
my role in this game
and, within and around it,
this is the route I have come
to take.

A path that I have so clearly failed
to map out — and this awesome
lack of any clear
and presently deliberate trajectory

must mean I’m a passionless pile
of shit without a single
hope in the world, right?

Just a mask
without a face, identity fixed:
so shallow it’s limited
to purely surface.

Changelessness.
Stagnation surplus.
As static
as reality permits.

No sapling here.
No seed.
Just a stone.

Cold and dead now
if there were ever a time
when I was dancing
in the warmth beneath this star.

And so you’ve buried me,
assuming I was among the dead
or ever-lifeless: forever fucking blind
to what really constitutes me.

Out from the hard soil
before the tombstone sprouts
something like a zombie

hand, a soft head
crowning, and I must rise
so as to grow and help
in this time of need

and to see
the look in your eyes
as I succeed.

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