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mixture - a cauldron of cackling cacodemons. winding in the eddy of a disembodied funnel, like a solitary column of the welkin, bent on whirling me into oneness… some alien destination. & do not think i flounder. i know this eventual oneness is my grief & i cup my hands around it. neck-deep - the mire yet yielding and yielding around me. & my notes, dying, can feed no more on my breath than yours. this serpent, this beast is my grief, i know. &, will-less, i travel its devious path; snaking into a sunless horizon & arched over by a colourless rainbow of promiscuous emotions from other travelers of their own peculiar paths. wraith - I spook the mausoleum of a life lost; of cold dreams visiting me in spectres of wraithlike nightmares; but suppose not that I shudder when i see the icy talons of Death clawing at my carcass therein. coward - i hope this mother bird will not snarl at me, when i cannot defy the piping calls of the eagle; when she opens her heart and i see only a requiem of regrets. i am not a failure but a fluid of an anti-dirge. still in search of the path that runs into the sun