that haunts creation.
A descendant of failure
who learned to succeed with claws,
limping through the trees and singing.
The echoes are gone.
There is the peace of not
wanting to know anything more.
This place and I, how we tore
at each other, as if it ever
mattered. In the darkness of my guts
I know the light comes from death.
Collapsible mountains,
shores of rock that sigh
and let go of surfaces.
Paths that unwind like snakes
and find the honey at the edge of fire.
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