mark my words,
the lexicon established
since the moment that you,
eyes open,
like a gentle, sleeping babe
on a clear cut, softly bedded
pile of golden yellow hay,
stumbled out, moaning, groaning,
hair out of your eyes and teeth glistening
hungry for the first bite of day,
reached for the plate they gave you
and feasted upon the broad array
of slippery slopes,
the dreams of common folks,
sleeping under the common weave,
graying black coarse burlap sacks,
hidden underneath and looking up
to night time skies, beyond and past,
has found you back and forth
the pen you hold,
back to the corner
from which you birthed
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