The walls in her eyes allow little light
to filter through the canopy above the snakes and bugs
her fingertipped tendrils search for holes
to get handholds creeping skyward
it sounds like a lot of work
Dragon's Blood on mountain tops grow umbrellas
in the blue air
life hunts where there's little soil and less water
magnets spin the crank shaft
twirling batons blur in the roar of imaginable speed
an Icosahedron plays the odds with likely positive outcomes
I have but a few odd hours in my pockets
and one tenth the passion of the past
resting in pools of shade
the roads turn dark on the fringe of a very engaging face
a university of suspicions sends out patrols
for the wandering monastery
I am caught and chained to a very small room
a church
a car
a prison
with a job to do
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