It turns out that speed
can become intelligence
if you’re fast enough.
If you run between
clay walls carved with every word
of the language of
your maternal tongue,
from the corner of your eyes
picking sentences
that ought to convey,
instead of some absurd play
where you fill the gaps
with your worse nightmare,
a sensitive and heartfelt
version of yourself,
a kind of hero
now laying the foundation
like a garden path
to nothing but light,
the Stockholm syndrome long shed
in some ornate bath.
To let go of doubt
or thoughts of an afterlife,
the worse of them lies,
mirror by mirror,
to build with haste and courage
loving human ties.
jam23
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