To murder Death, I woke before dawn rose ~ Saturday, May 2, 2026

This is not a novel, let me repeat
history cannot repeat itself, now
is the flow of time a blockage, a dream
stories tell a narrative of defeat

is memory itself a memory
sit in meditation, get up and bow

no one else in the room, let out a scream
others enter, full of concern, they care
to say this life is but a reverie

a waking dream, absorbed in the details

nothing but the beautiful distractions
observe how, in this world, history fails
volumes written, no account transactions
elbow my way through the room, do I dare
let them say what they want, arms akimbo

let me display authority, a joke
even without a precedent, actions
talk through the mushrooms and the trees, window

timorous view, the wind communicates
intentions before history, I poke
my friend the bear to see the attractions
every ride at the amusement park speaks

repetitively, the bear hibernates
each time I poke my friend, the bear, he cries
perhaps he needs his sleep, his beauty rest
each time I poke my friend, the bear, he tries
ambitiously, to ambush me, to test
time and again, to find the mole of leaks

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