Dead Shoes

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I step in dead shoes
clay feet with toes of stone
bones grind beneath my feet

I stand and pause between pacings
a refugee from the referee who wastes
my time

I am spitted token of association made anew
a generational shoot, a sprout from a crevice
in a sidewalk

Would that I were a comfort from the hunger
of the pathologies and the associations
so cumbersome and untrying

but i am above fixations upon the multitude
I drain the context and it softly withers,
steaming cold while I bleed

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