you fade away
A torn transparency
projects a failed
mirage of green.
Looking opens the
last eyes
to blinding dust.
With seven spare oxen
the not-dead few take up
the pilgrimage but,
memory's a poor guide and
the despairing wind calls
their bones out.
The mind knows no
outside and even extreme
measures are restricted by
the many fooling mirrors the
will cannot disbelieve
away.
For lack of insight,
not blinding light,
all turns to
slow decay.
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