Iteration

For all things as they add up before I die, remember
             if I value these things one by one, keeping them away
                       from harm as I store them in my chest, that heavying
                               chore  of  locking and holding the door, then there
                                       I’ll remain as I see the dearest loss of my youth, as if
                                                 always taught to let go, end my sentences before
                                                           they run on; losing coherence as the lines break
             if they don’t fit or mean
                         anything at all, then words
                                     are erasures of the world:
                                                 echoes of the endless pain
                                                             of beating the whole life
                                                                         out of the routine fear
            else I will scatter all these things
                        in my own room, forget them
                                    and their ability to crash into
                                                each other, for all to witness
                                                            the monster that I’ve become
                                                                        that haunts with or without sleep

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