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Too Much Like Alone....
holy infidels laying stone
for the pathway to the intimate...
stopping to smoke, a cup of coffee,
maybe a shot to break the chill...
books are only people
waiting to be set free from the shelf...
people are only spider's webs,
catching tiny fragments of light.
and this body a tired prayer,
spoken by lips both bruised and shaken.
my hand smells too much like alone,
but my feet know the way home!
poem
by
Eric Cockrell
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