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April 24, 2012
We sort the ones out who seem to say, "come." We do this by habit. They come prodding the eyes of our eyes, and our hearts cave to an odd wishing. They pulse in step with an arcane mythology wriggling out of a stale hold on a fevered life afraid of itself calling out of its self-made darkness, whispering, "come to me." Yet, so vigorous are the morphing walls constructed to secure, protect and defend with marshal intent by gestures simple and direct to off the insinuations of this alien voice rising in pitch and clarity, simply, "please come."