blow against the wind
grow into the grains
fly across my skin
glow more light than greys
I've contracted a disease of
reflexes, that free me from certain
primal impulses
and I'm contractually obliged
to put this passion on the rocks
by the lies our hearts have writ
into the spider webs and spit
that drips so slowly from the seconds
that are reckoning my clocks
a six-pointed knife
is a ninjas dagger.
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