"progress is forfeit,"
or so you would sing.
relying on the wind to bring
all these things to air.
my own home is worthless,
a falter to beset.
but i was dumb and restless, yes:
a pious false prophet.
but now i awake and shake
in sheets i'll coat with sweat;
in every dream i recreate
the life that i have left.
all i offer to your sons and daughters:
"reach for nothing;
take what you create."
all i offer is laid out on the altar
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