Glory be to the gods at their highest– I am most high when on top of you.

I have doubts, too– millions of them, more than I can count in three lifetimes. I couldn’t.
Struggled ‘gainst the wall and the paintings hung– they seem to bleach the world with their visage.
Lurk the iron where works combust and, battleships, they
Sailed right throughout– quite quietly magnifico, taking breaths ‘n talkative fuss.

I wish I were as expensive as these scrapped works of our auteurs,
Even dolls, they are auctioned at higher rates,
Even memoirs, even vass– even decorative plates.
Do we all equally struggle with arithmancy, arithmetics, and ambition?

Do we all cope ‘gainst the far-fetched apprenticeship, the elbowing Adlai, arbors, and auctions,
Adlibs of the plentiful goats, all’s feet five inches ‘bove grass and their sebum?
Appraise me heaven and earth, please– appraise me like newfound star systems.
Put me on all your displays, arranged at maximum lighting, minimal retreat, resent.

I no longer bo’ered visiting the unmarked graves of my ex-lovers where I used to grow me gardens.
I carry always now a match box, a peppermint, a salt shaker, broken stem, broken sternum.
Acquired these all from you and I’m sorry I’ve stolen.
All I have for show, too baseless. I’m sorry. I’ve stolen.

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