a vagabond, a drifter, a pauper i see the sun burning in the sky and the moon glowing in the far off horizon shining with dreams bright and star bound with seams yet when i paint them pictures they bark about rhyme and meter and tell me about punctuation and yet fail to employ it themselves i see the temporal employment i dig on to be the mirror of god for i see that it is my purpose this slow world with small time it is turning in barrels of paint pictures fast before time runs out painting of god's conforming image where a thousand worlds are not enough to paint it a billion times multiplied over and again in order to embolden accuracies building it's correct enough to see it all amongst the millions of millions feeling each grain of sand passing the surface of my lonesome skin to spit the burning feeling out a final poem meaning to walk away grand pleasure granted to so few writing again and to write it off lost to get fucked out of my face woman is the earth to her man here a vagabond a drifter and a pauper verily loose and hanging out there rotten place where i bide my time even chance in this space coalesced gives the middle finger to peace tell now as i have told you before your supreme clues but as i wish you the best as i turn my back to your face as you may be useless lest you kindle some form of fire
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