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Existential Predicament

Our voices no longer tend to unison
In these boats drifting across dark waters,
No renaissance culls an older wisdom
From city lights or pain’s empty daughter.
We are drawn from the earth, broken, skewered,
Shrunk to puppets, faceless, a mere maybe.
Here can we barely survive the sewers
Wave away newly-unearthed galaxies.

We can become these thrown, bitter fragments,
Pallbearers of earth mother’s wartime zones,
Stars that shiver blue, breadlines of mass wants,
Rootless in this defoliated home,
Joys lost, souls unmoved by unmoored arts
When music’s eclipsed by these graceless parts.

by Richard Bunch

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