Gone

I’ve softened.

Gone.

I like the believers

And seekers, the sellers,

And dreamers, the singers

And dancers, the raconteurs,

And prancers, the scoundrels

And shakers, the arguers,

And haters.  All makers.

Shifting their weight about

Sifting the soil,

Trading traces of themselves,

Their spoil.  Left unaccounted.

 

It’s only the hoarders in the corners

Quietly accumulating, stagnating,

Fossils and rocks, counters,

Sinking their claws, stalactites,

Deep inside the earth’s skin,

Guarding, guarded, waiting,

I can’t stand for.

 

 

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