And when they come:
pod people to carry me off
and tear me up,
then all walk away, one by one,
sweet nepenthe-like
as though they'd never met,
confused, unable to get
why they'd gathered to begin with.
Just my luck:
probably not.
Ockham's razor
severed the hydra
at the trunk --
that's me in a box:
Venus de Milo
toothless, eyeless, dumb,
my limbs now stumps --
nothing but a brain
to regurgitate
its memories down to every crumb
of information and chew them like cud
until true silence comes.
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