2178: Traumas

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It is so – greatest forms
of hardships are in lies
we retell ourselves
– all

family folk-lore is cruel
[stories in other allures
& histories] – we seek it

in laggy shadows – See
low river mist flee from
our loop of a [so-often]

flooded field at rush of
dusk – my dulling child
hour & tap-tap-tap-tap

of blackbirds’ chirrups
[& I chalked-up streets
& walls – arrows – trails

home – gone] – Traipse
past dust crosses on a
path – our lies recalled

are now birdsong – on
& on – retelling carries
our urges for knowing

which routes we mark
as true – every familiar
fable was once a truth

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