Conspiring Distance

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I am the fallen.


The runaway son, born and reborn through transpiring muck.
Crossing; the wide distances, currency. A dissonance
commanding recognition.


This does not go easy on anyone persuaded that they
themselves are listening.
Fanatics.


I am an assassin familiar; wanting to break your memory
of the balance of secrets.
The ransom unpaid by forged documents.


Let alone sheaves of thought stacked against the
moonlight of your staring heart.

©Dean Baker

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