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Fourteen
Our planet cries a mournful wail
in a dripping downpour escapade
which pours the ocean depths.
Mother moon sleeps in the corner,
caring less about the affairs of mice
or men or angels or anything
that plague the planet earth.
The winds weeps subtly, though not
as quietly, and the acid raindrops
sear from glazed and cloudy eyes.
Arid Earth, I knew you once,
many years in history past.
I recall a certain scent, of dew,
I think, and maybe mist.
I'm sorry now, I really am,
that you are forced to blush again
at every mention of the human race.
I've ridden you, Earth, for light-lapse years
as you spin and twindle through empty space.
I'm acutely aware of your circle trek
around the haughty star of life.
Fourteen times around the sun,
and my perspective still remains
unlucky thirteen plus one.
__________________
The Palace Flophouse
When Newton closed his eyes beneath a tree
and took the apple from the serpent, he
conceived the urge of humanity, plea, plea,
procreant desire and tendency.
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