Dearest Self

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Dearest Self,
How will this all wind out?
a question lost in thread,
like a sail pulled
and cut with familiar scissors? a pinion,
released to scatter
—the drifts of obscurity—
as yellow eyes into the shore of yesterday's me
or will fingerprints serve to talon
—as would a button
in capturing a single point
to this incredibly weird draft?

—me

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