Is knocking around in my head.
Like a prisoner on strike,
I think in maps.
Tunneling my way
From dead end to dead end
Until a pin-prick of light
Blinds me entirely.
I’ve only ever visted
The tattered places,
And laid my head
Upon the cold, remnant archs
Of dreams best suited
For those whose thoughts
Are cut from their roots
On the stardust spine of night
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