The stench of
dreams veils my trails
No Hall of Fame
chases my name
My skin is malleable,
made of wishes
and whims that are obedient,
but not mine;
I live in the shadows
of the ones
I walk

I am
the unappreciated blue
that blossoms in the bottom of every fire
I am
the culmination of all silent letters
that stitch your vocabulary together

My life, in general, is judged harshly by you.
What use is it to be of refuse, ask you,
your eyes,
your cows,
your walls.

In reply I do nothing but shrug
my shoulders;
(my shoulders,
upon which your grandeur rests)
and watch all of you


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