iv. Epithet of A Wistful Boon

Play this my way, as we

stray from the rest of this day

Shall we cascade

 

As our instincts

don’t change

Is it distinct?

Is this distinct from the ages,

of hand-rolled, hand-made

 

Padmasana, in my soul

I cradle a grave,

the stillborn may still

save us

 

Nicotine blood in this fetus,

hung from an umbilical cord,

cut-short on the way to Jesus

Will any of them save us?

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