Transition

Illustration

 

One must integrate

With dirt, with dust,

With flaking paint,

With rust, with bits

And pieces scrapped.

For this is where we end.

No sense to pretend

There is a final purity,

Some evanescent security.

When flesh and bone

Solidify to stone

Or wander off to recreation

At some chance invitation

To become bug, or plant,

Another open gate

To participate.

This is a rare delight

Not to be denied.

 

 

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