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Samsara’s Sick Blanket.

On edge.

Toes trace
the terminus, lap
at this awesome chasm.

So push me and deal
with the consequences
or help me build a bridge.

Yes: it’s come to this.

After tales lifetimes have spun,
walk away
with me on a strand
or smother
me with samsara’s sick blanket.

I can’t take anymore.

Just can’t go with the flow.
Wherever I take
a stand in this river,
it seems I cannot help
but obstruct it.

Am I an agent of evolution
or constipation
on the path to advancement?

Here I stand,
wavering and imbalanced,
hypersensitive and perplexed.

Take me to answers
or leave me in the cold.
Either way, I must go forward.

I can adapt to truth
as pain is surmountable
with true purpose,

but I have this violent allergy
to your vast, fragrant
sea of bullshit:

don’t you dare scare
me or go and try to provide
comfort with your lies.

Set me to sail or drown me.
Kill me or help me build a life.

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