Uhuru

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From “The Usual Suspects.”

Two weeks ago,

I saw the way drops of

water cut through stone, as I had been,

for nearly six months,

looking for a metaphor

to the meaning of life during a

particularly suffocating ennui.

 

I almost

risked it all for

a numb desperation

to surface.

 

II.

 

In the cave and in the hollow,

the path led to death.

 

On my way out,

I had to touch the moss on

the rocks, all of it, I had to

feel, with my own hands,

the meaning of life, that which

is life,

is growth despite

cold static flow and

evaporating desert chords,

your ultra-low kill,

my yellowing breath,

my skeletal roots,

impossible and

ascending.

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