Who is better left
by the roadside?
The roadside being
the point in life where
darkness becomes darker
than distance, more violent
than birth which severes
the lung from its heart,
ripping the mind from
its platform. And so one
lies quietly by the roadside
like a miniature god, a broken
cloud, a paper bird.
Becomes the paper bird
whose scissors cut off
its head, punch holes in
its fragile chest and shreds
its lovely, scalloped, wings.
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