GANGREL GROWN

Now I am gangrel grown, 

Bent to the beam of my back.

Sanded joints and unexpected weaknesses travail.

All that was once so sure

Balloons softly and slowly

As dust from the boots

of some lunar explorer.

Desire, except for solipsistic spasms,

Has lost all purpose and strategy.

Leave me to forge:

What I can,

What I must,

From old dreams

And new surmises.

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