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Posted by on Apr 5, 2018 in Poetry | 2 comments

MOLT

MOLT

MOLT
1.
At the threshold of the bug
To molt or remain in this shell of grey.
An earth encased in cloud still shines
But bugs don’t mind the shade.

It leads this way the peeling and the crime
Of thinking this is me and this is mine
This is thee and this is thine.
Eternal rules break down in time.

Do I stay or do I go? The singer sang.
In Auld Lang Syne it didn’t matter.
On New Year’s Day we all grow fatter.

2.

I like to linger
In a place of danger.
Where there is no danger
No love and no anger
There is no song or singer
No one to give you the finger
And no one to finger.

2 Comments

  1. Nicely Done, Jon!

  2. Jethro, thank you! I hope you are well.

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