slated in prose/poetry
in consciousness i find forgotten intention. at the edges and ends of unconscience i find belayed response. for reflection or retort, anticipating resorted affliction, or settling seemingly to soft silence, til stirred. a remarkably straight horizon with perpetually false edge. where response may be but no end will lay, save for each dawn and dusk of new day. and the glints and peaks and varied intercourses of trespassers will leave no stay til too many years.
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