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Pulp

Our angst reaches from us like tendrils pulling away from all that is made and all that does not breathe.
.
We yearn for places where there is no concrete,
No voices to penetrate the thin air 
with advertisements or demands.
.
Among the presence of wooded monarchs,
We converse with oak and pine
.
Scattered within a pathless order
We enter the repose of unspoken prayer
and
Return to the pulp of our own shining.
.
.
.
.
.
.
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