Thirty-two years later

We are the sum of our pieces
Meshed together
Hammered into place
Until the overlapping bits are crushed
And the gaps are filled
With hubris and bile

We are lost in the labyrinth
Sitting alone
In the darkness
Three twists from the end
Four twists from the start
Incoherent, inchoate, inching
Nowhere

We are fingertips
Measuring alcohol
Like the quicksands of time
Measuring out the steady rhythm
Of our lifesong

And we would scream
But who would come?

— ptkh 051416

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