Drawn inexplicably toward
an apathetic state,
a gray crystalline kind of weight,
a sort of beacon pointing home

where purpose is a luxury
for the many who go blindly,
yet ever so certain, kindly
into the false sublime
of hope

and there on a precipice hanging,
a mammoth to this waking,
dream witness to the
aching, flowing tepid through
the soul.

One thought on “Mammoth

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