Unmoored, cast afloat, by phobias like these,
that catch my throat, drive me to my knees,
make me pray, or meditate, for something new,
but I'm too little too late, too desperate too soon.
Yet I continue to search. I need to be sure.
So that obsession lurks, for the constant lure,
the voice so coarse, the hands and teeth
that bruise with such force, and shape my dreams.
(Is it just me?)
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