The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

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I am only as large
as the world lets me become.
I spend time above my attic,
waiting for a rite from On-high
to say - yes you too can change.
If only I could reach higher,
but the ghost of temporary ideals
looms too close. I am hasty
she is subdued. But my boxes remain
full to bursting, with what I am uncertain.

I looks intangible, wisps
of almost transparent blue
that drive higher than I.
Suckling pineapple in a crowded ballroom
I am too tall to hit the ceiling
but rain sloppy juice on my subjects,
supine in their worship.
Tie them off, fill them full
of junk and let it be done.
Slave will carry my things
while I sup on ill-gotten fruits.
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