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Poetry: Metaphysics



  The earth is heavy with days.
  Burdened with accumulated lives,
  it staggers its heaving round,
  a grinding stone, crushing to nothing
  the thin crust of terror and despair,
  breathless consciousness
  blinking aware and winking away
  before the magnitude of
  indifferent eternity.
                         The earth
  is old, and afflicted, weeping seas
  to mark the minutes of its little span,
  heavy with days, laden under
  the desperate faith of offspring in
  the benevolence of an order that,
  mindless, annihilates stars.
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