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Paul Grimsley

a stake driven into the ground
to mark your once upright position
is climbed by two serpents
who desire the flight
from here healing will grant;
through you throat
the message is lifted
up into change’s tattered fabric
which leaves fragments the same,
you run a soul
through de-poll,
are strung differently in a name --
it's a memory of your index finger,
backbone to a thought,
hairline crack in the always,
a river bed of tradition,
an alternative vein
for belief to drain.

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