Textling #38

If it weren’t for the piercing pains that plague my skull, today would pass in a blur. The purpose of limbs, throat, eyes, is clumsily drawn. Pain’s location is precise though, bull-eyed, electrified, and I, limp litter, fritter my life away.

Something is pushing through, perhaps a Zeusian creature? Let her be a juggler of words and worlds, a cosmonaut, a poet, a crocheteer, time-traveller, dawn reveler, purveyor of truth, rude, raucous, rowdy, proud fool, doubtful philosopher, dreamer of wild and dappled things, of ruckus, touch and ecstasy, courtship adviser, turncoat despiser, cloud racer, tracer of ancient mores, bread for guns-inciter, roses for knives, sybil, seeker, memory keeper, grace dispenser, falsehood sensor, kind heart to all souls, translator, vindicator, sharer, mapper, reader, connector, rebel rouser, boundary browser, maker of peace. One who speaks to all and sundry, declaims in tongues I have never heard, from rooftops, molehills, underpasses, and straight into my ear.


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