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Contributor: Sy Roth

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Threads appear in an unraveling broadcloth.
The being warps and woofs its way through time
inflicting opportune wounds on them lest they forget.

Here and there a playful dance
joyous romp binds them to the thread .
The cavort to the festival of their own creation.

They dance to the long memories
lost in a dance, a hora-tune of diminution.
It embraces them in a deluge of talmudic dissertations,
dips them like sweet apples and honey
in the blood of the martyrs, to a spirit
or bathes them in the bitter herbs of tendentious existence.

He cast them to the vast, dark stygian waters
the wonder of vexation
as they trundle on in their death march following the white-robed molochs
who guide them to the turgid waters of Acheron.

They should run—
run along with the murky sirocco winds that swirl around them
that whisper sweet nothings in their air—
acquire your own repentance.

They bleat out the plaintive words of memory—
tishkoch yemeni—
stockpile a mountain of words
the hungry void with their homage to the spirit of one .

They top the tank of their own hungry void
with sibiliant, silent, camel-ridden prayers.
Follow the shifting trade winds to the hills and valleys of their own destruction.
May their right hands wither if they forget.
They cannot.

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Peaceful conundrums traipse through doleful musings. I am a retired educator and is trying to answer his own questions after posing a million.


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