I fling back my palms,
In surrender,
My weapon.
For I swore,
I could jump across oasis palms,
Only to land on a flesh-colored mountain,
Which turned out to be,
One finger.
The middle one.
In a blink,
I lept,
Could not comitt,
And at the last wink,
From some laughing cloud,
Somewhere up there,
I too hung,
For dear life,
Onto a page corner,
With my sweaty palms,
Waiting for the tear,
Of the page,
Only to find,
A pool cornered,
In my eye,
To soften my fall,
I wept.
And with my palms,
I fan-dried the pool,
Palms flung back,
Shading my eyes,
So I could clear the blur,
Into innate formless bodies,
I send to see.
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