at 33 my heart was broken by an soft white light 
I'd never spoken of before. at 33 i was surrounded by the panic 
of a God 
i didn't fear or a love 
i didn't worship. at 33 
i split myself for you and 
the splinters to the wind 
and the rest to the rabbit hole 
i chased my whole damn life.  at 33 
i moved like a gypsy on the trail 
of a road less traveled. at 33 
i found no 
only war 
in my heart even though the 
days stretched like ribbons to 
heaven and back. at 33
 i sat gloomy like
 those sundays 
i couldn't escape when
 the grey skies would open wide 
and swallow my tiny courage 
through a straw that didn't work both ways. at 33 
you promised me nothing 
and i got what you promised 
and i waited for another 
thousand years 
to catch up to your eyes 
even though they were far 
gone and i was too. at 33 
i led a small army into battle 
and won a minor victory against my former slaves 
and promised to make a new plan 
that would provide me with the necessary 
good to make a necessary right 
and pull those long sharp knives 
from the thick end of my spine 
so i could walk upon the ground 
you laid full of traps and smiles 
always swaying back and forth 
in heat waiting for the next 
retreat but it came and 
went before you even recognized 
the poems 
were dusty and overdue. at 33 
i drank from a glass of wine that 
set my balance spinning into every other orbit but my own. at 33 
my home was deserted 
and my plans were cremated 
and my ability to wash myself
 clean of the sad old mess went through 
the window with the breeze 
and the rain and the mountain of lost
 memories that once defined my very nature as 
a curious boy with a fever for 
danger unless i'm remembering it all wrong 
again and again and again and again and again...

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