All my days Is this the final moment then that all my days have come to? the days that stretch their listless light to long dark nights in restless sheets with stains and dreams of crowded streets past well worn shops that beckon... preparing a small space for me beside the day old bread, or hanging on a butcher's rack disembowel'd and display'd; I find I am, though, unafraid. It seems I've failed to reckon... to put away these childish things, or would it even matter? you pluck me from the bargain tray and think "I could be fatter!" Would you take me in your home again to serve me on a platter? And would it matter after all to toss my bones so carelessly in an unkempt corner of your attic, toss them with a clatter amid unremember'd debris, watch the dust mites scatter? Or stretch me out across your sink like a ragged dishcloth spent in frantic grips that turn and twist that twist and rinse unclean. the pale kings pass the horsemen's git their silent k
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