Roads
of Ill
What turn;
what diversion – what way
Have we made
that brings us to this day?
When the
better part of all
Is one that
does not call
To nearness;
nor offers weirdness
Along the
roads of ill
Strewn in
carrions of kill.
What is this
place of strange nests?
Where tubes
and blips speak of rests
That hold care
and love in isolation
So that breath
is not immolation
Of limb, life,
and - civilization.
And so, the circle,
the center, the point
Are One - that cannot self-anoint.
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