Neither filled with purpose nor lost
nor angry nor righteous nor bossed
though there is no hope, this is no loss
for animal for stone for moss
It's the way the scroll, unread, unrolls
as it hits the road, leaps up, unfolds
and its curves and meanings hold
to the shape embossed in gold
From the green of mold and blue
to the tireless tunnel newly hewn
from the skeptical holes in every viewer
through sea, spit and skewer
It is like this in every fenced field
that the captive wants so to feel
our life is tainted beyond by the real
that our mouthpiece minds unseal
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