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Set the Pace

This depression is heavy set.

Sweating on a marching mill.

the kind of sweating that takes years to dry.

For the heart to slow, even longer.

These lungs expand

but the blackness holds less oxygen

less and less as the days drag each puff of smoke out of the sunlight.


As I feel my mind dimming,

the engine over turning ever slower,

the fire rises to scorch an eager drum

setting the marching speed again

pacing faster and faster.

And it burns, my love.


It really does.