Exercise (Poem)

Sing to live,

drunk on footsteps who beat the heart

at its own game of pulse.

Tortured muscles only grow

while simplified lust tends to wane

brush the hair from your nose

the tickle tries to saunter down

to lips, who

politely decline

writing grades upon graves.

The final stretch always leaves

legs feeling long

eyes heavy

mind fully furnished

dressed to perfection

in inconsequential seeming.

But, to seem is to be, after time

and time, when it isn’t healing







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