Tonight I Fall
Lost again, dizzy and clearly
Whatever is -- and will be -- is not lost on me. Nor is the lost art of irony. But I shake, for fear and loss. Paranoia. Loathing. Is this the leap forward? Or a stumble off.
Maybe a whole world awaits beyond the lost and prose. The lost poetic hate of fear, and fates worthy choices.
Where do we land when we fall? How do we splat when we land.
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