At my center is a multitude
I’m coreless, a perpetual autumn
I’m the stumbler
I’m your stroke brain
And the argument for the value of pain
I’m the true contradiction whirling eternally needing more-than-one
I’m an accident
I’m the tyranny of gratitude on a pleasant afternoon when daydreams waver over to southern pariahs
I’m inappropriate
I’m some phantasm in the periphery, the trillionth genetic rough draft of a Buddha,
One of God’s favorite children despite my conjoined twin

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