We are the paint
peel chipping.
Dangling over
the prickly
bushes.
Waiting with an
eye
toward falling.
I wonder who I
will be
when I am cut
and
bleeding—
I wonder who I
will be
when I have
given up.
It is like the
blanking of
a color screen.
The bleaching of
forest
green carpeting.
Hold my hand for
just
a little while--
we are moving
and fading
on and on.
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