I love the sensation
of this tool
cradled
within my hand
the hue of dusty
voids between stars
softly encasing
my intimate notions
the texture inviting
and protecting
cushions and caresses
my fingers passing over the
crinkled bark
releasing the golden ribbon
to mark the places
that I used to be
smooth pages
with wide printed spaces
to admit the meandering
that I call consciousness
a journey
an account
of my many
selves
(poem 12 of 30)
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