And here, at the crossroads,
hesitation lingers like
the pounding voices of migraine.
My head ― a anvil of hooves,
stammers in scattered dialects like
this melancholic mumbling of water-bodies.
On my spine is a hulk ―
a sulking sketch of paranoia
with hands that tilt me sideways
like a gnomon at the mercy of Zephyrs.

Is Redemption in the dive? At the plunge,
Froths become bubbles; bodies are flotsams
Of solid sap — stretched like the forlorn
countenance of the Horizon.

And here, at this altar of decision,
where reasons run without refrain
like enjambed lines; the plunge is
the washing of the sin.


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