Peace, lay your soft hand
upon my clenches
and smooth my furrows
I will build my house for your
of the scraps of the others
I raze and build at each
timeless passing
lay your sturdy bricks
along my trenches
and make my burrows
kind to come by
the old is crumbling
into uncertainty
and all I was sure to be
certain, I now do not know
here, I face fully
my greatest death
far surpassing the constant
endings and beginnings
of my selves,
it happens unlike the old
others, which built themselves
upon a shallow rut
it happens to be
the death of their foundation
all the houses of my selves
ever lain in or on it
collapsing
heavy to deepen the gulch
for your nesting upon
the compost of my old others
dwellers of old worlds
and older fables
and the most fertile yet
I ask you plant yourself
in my decay
deepen your roots
from my houses to come
to my heart awaiting
I ask that I may float lightly
and you be the bedrock
of the temple that holds all things
and myself, not knowing
a single one as its own.
Joy to you,
Vanessa
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