Out of the mangled mesh our psyche weaves
we have this: our terrain, tract of land, sphere,
that extends from our bodies to reach far,
effusing into all crevices, holes and crannies.
What we think becomes forever known; stored
in halls, records, in other member’s minds as
mimetic lovebugs, or parasites, that pass on
in murmurs, praises, deeds, and stone –
nothing is left out, untouched, or forgotten.
All comes back into our global blood, our
woven air, our hybrid rituals. We feed upon
the crumbs of existed moments, yet pushing
to collate, include, that history which serves
us best, serves us worst. So all together now,
we share the paranoia of our times, infesting
us unruly. When will the Gods come to flush
us out of our trench, like a chariot of Goddesses?
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