Thwart the Wind

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Today I lose as I have lost

The worm has not succumbed to what has killed human kind,

It has not grown faint and withering as we have in time.

The earth is not gorged or bloated on what is left,

The wind has not become visible with our dust.

Move me. 

Move me oh my God and my Maker.

Sing to me of brooding upon the deep and laugh at my fear.

Lift me up within the palm of Your hand.

Send through me the blessing of time, move faster toward the sublime.

The poets from Thoreau to pop stars call for essence and supplant “thing.”

Give to me God and Maker the precise word,

The very epitome of precision in thought.

Raise me up into the third heaven and speak to me again.

Keep me there and let the dregs of my existence starve the worm

Thwart the wind.    

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