Like a misshapen [gangrenous] bough,
A gnarled [sea-bone],
We bend to impossibility.
A killing moss
Ever present, ever growing
Ever green, slowly smothers
Each sense.
Pores weep life
The core dries, stiffens
And, involuntarily, cracks.
Obscurely felt;
Boldly endured occlusion.
Time blurs day, becomes day,
Becomes judgment.
What future [foresight]?
The present reckons.
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