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This isn't what I meant to say.
It was like this,
But the words were meant to be better,
And the motivations purer.
This is not the day to say it at all,
But I'm prone to oversleep.
I am the Nomade.
I'm a man made of letters;
The potential for every great word
And every combination thereof,
Faceless and fearless,
Surrounded by princes and brides,
Rulers of their nationless kingdoms.
The absentee sun arrives
And bears down on my folded knees,
Dispersing my shadow
In a membrane of verse.
People pass like drifting flowers,
Casting off pollen
And other bits of their lives.
I am the Nomade,
A man of iron and irony.
I never leave this place.
My brethren scatter to the corners
Break off more corners
And scatter again.
I have no use for locomotion.
Everything that does not come from me
Comes to me.
I am anticipation of all knowing.
I am the great driving force
Of lesser creation
I am the Nomade.
Step too close and I surround you.
I glitter in your sight forever.
I am the house of all wanting.
I am the tower of doubt and wonder.
I am the cosmic spectrum of learning.
I am the center of gravitating awe.
I am the Nomade.
I was never going to say this;
I was promised rain.


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This Is How They Talk

There's another part, always,
that doesn't want to go,
a shape more practiced
than my humble sincerities,
my tilted resolutions.

I forget to relax my knees,
That I should soften my jaw,
take lessons from the glass,
from the sidelong blurs,
and oblong silhouettes;

take in the everyday words
That clatter around my body.
I should brush against these threads,
learn their girth and texture.

This is how they move,
in great thrusts, driven
by asteroids and thunder.

This is how they talk,
in echos and gasps,
looking right at you.