A Plume of Smoke & Other Thoughts: Poetry

Looking for contentment,
finding only shadows
Of what I used to call
A life
It feels like indebtedness is
A foregone conclusion,
The only thing this
System will recognize as
Being real
These days were meant
for passing equations 
into the dustbins of 
a remote past only 
left in the parched delirium
Of the desert
I am an Aeon,
matted unit of time
Rolled out over infinities
In the center of this
Immanence is just another
Word for "tired and true"
And so you ask:
Is judgment just
a plume of smoke
Or something 
there in the heart?

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