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Self Surgery

by Agony Aiane

Whatever remains

The sense of me

Leaves are slain

From an autumn tree

 

They shed away

From my reach

What was okay

Now obsolete

 

My form elapses

Moments, they leave

I battle for a map

But I cannot compete

 

I am nothing more now but montivagant

An older version of myself a monument

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Thursday 14th April 2016 2:58 am

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