The mud of the earth has
washed ashore. It makes tracks
that lay aside fire-breathing. Left
to its own devices, it sets
itself apart. Dreaming
of a different jungle.
Another forest. Healing
somewhere, across the green
expanses of spacetime that
cover the scars left by my
predecessors. The heart
of every Precursor reveals
nothing. And yet, beneath the
honking of the duck-geese,
you hear the gentlest of stirrings:
a static destiny, held in-between
creole eyes, as if waiting
for you to step aside, and let there be
a heightening.
A lightening of canopy;
a tree line that dazzles, and whispers
here, Kevin Martens,
you are still not yet free.
But here, little Singaporean,
even korsang di Tera Italya bedri
has stories that ask you to squeeze
deep into the wildgrasses,
into the soul-barks. Into the leaves
of a simmering, undulating star-
forest,
no longer waiting
for evergreen destiny.
No longer left endlessly recreating
the same blissful, endless scenery.
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