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Swallowed whole by something
so uncertain of its purpose.
Some enduring instinct widowed by
the habitat that deemed It vital.

I wear its memory in
the corners of my eyes.
The aging in my hands
from so much trembling.

Maybe purpose
supersedes all language.
The only depiction of a
troubled heart, exiled to the past.

I come from a long line
of brilliant people,
who fell short of themselves.
We're all sons rejecting
the footsteps of our fathers.

We are all bastards
to those who don't love us.
We are all riddles
to those who have tried.