Peak

every day, I am closer to the
losing of language. my faculty
for finding the scent:
failing. I no longer can
make sense of the
pretty messes.

there is just a parade
of color and listless
weed. as I look back
and look back. for what
I used to see. for
what I used
to be.

I will die having found
and lost
these beautiful things.



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