anarchaicpoem

in which, one dreams of a future past,
and knows adolescent lilies will never last
as aqueous ink drips, unconsoled by the pen
offering only a strong resistance to its owner's hand.
consider: what if the owner doesn't own it?
is it an enabler or nothing more than a dinner gift?
without an answer, took leave from the table
leaving a whirlwind, a mess, a moral-less fable,
waiting for Freedom, for who knows when--
what if It lives, long ago, back then?

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