We movers

flit like moths from

light to light

backpack half packed

roots never penetrating

the depths of depth,

caressing surfaces

like winter sun on skin.

We are the same, us

and them

but we, like Buddhas

or apocalypse-lovers,

see the end

unshrouded by promises

or love or infinity,

we live mortal lives

taking the drug knowing

our high will

vanish but

there will be another.

We movers

want it all;

fleeing, chasing

never looking behind

for bravery or fear.

Don’t be fooled,

love’s fingers grasp for us

I am becoming

entwined, moth in

a glistening web

but nigh

is the end.

My bag is

half packed.


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