When the hard work
of putting one word
after another
becomes a trudge
through mud
while being whipped
by the thin branches
you’ve pushed aside
and then released
which then snap back into
your face,
it is best
to find a perch on
one of those
cutting twigs,
let yourself dry
and rest
until the words
fall from you
as song,
doing for themselves
what you have been trying
to make them do.
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Dark Matter 
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