The Tesseract

To recall stained fingertips
that never leave is a joy I,
for one, will always hold dear. That
meat, those legs, the undying
pace of being to which we yielded
in naked thrusts of naivety.
Be a ghost from morn ‘til
a day when that is realised
and wrench each ounce of
hedonism into these steps;
these waves, these bulbous
feet as well. We define such beauty
in Saxon tongue to wrench
a flame and slap a name to
a wall that knows not of
what it means. Grow to
know how childhood
woe is everything that
shapes the salted water on
bare feet that skip; stoney
and morose but ever-
moving.

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