Hell, TH.

This is how we walk
we climb
to see the tips of leaves
graced by nothing
displaced by our cunning

These are the ships we bought
to sail
to see the dip of eternity
foiled by everything
the waves laugh at our garbled singing

To float is to dream
and seam
like those marshmallow wings
fazed by nothing
denounced only rarely

We stand and these mirrors
feel our hands
push back into glands
mocking of all
we wait for our fall

This whack-a-mole vagrant
is tired of games
coughing and spluttering
heart ever-fluttering
smile for the cloud-line

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