consigned…

Heraclitaurelianism

We streamed into the stream

The water we stood in

We stood in

Only once

We eventually returned to where

We came from

A desolate windy place

We began to melt away

We were consigned

I was not sorry

We had been

In time we’ll be again

Or we won’t

“If I didn’t write to empty my mind I’d go mad”

— Lord Byron

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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