Refueled

refueled

Took a few extra hours

to refuel with intoxicated

rough, smooth words

just to feel born again

at a height higher than a kite

lower than an anchor

dropped in some foreign sea

only to discover

between the bindings of written

something was missing other

than ink rhyming words

those same ones that haunt

each motion detected in dreams

crashing against rocks

becoming a new perspective

dark, then light

scarcely sensible word after word

but they continue to fight

to be placed on recycled paper

long into the night

exposing

yeah, me.

burn baby burn

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