Perhaps
I am reeling
And wallowing inside
Displaced, from a safe patch of ground

Or I’m purposely unbound
With a great fear of rotting
As a rust-cradled ship
On the shores of death

Perhaps I foam
And I reek of peril
As the bombs fall in mind
A whistle, then a crash
Then fire, then dust

Or perhaps
I am fully composed
And clothed in pretension
Ever-coursing
With smugness and pride

Or perhaps it’s a dream
But a blistering relief
That showers the frantic
And frees the dismayed
From their shackles of sleep

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