Six entire tiles away I lay upon a spider
less of a figure than sun-dried kernel
who scrapes along—Professor’s aging
voice moves its body. How a journey
moves me, coupled with my distaste
for this particular literary discussion,
and applies my fingerprints to paper.

The voice does lead my inspiration
along a glaring path. Friend, I wish
your legs had never trickled here.
You may’ve happened upon purpose
out on a path who could not glare,
who does not fear your bite, who
does not mind your natural stride.

But you have unknowingly strode
into a territory of moving voices
who seek a grandeur with the peak
of chains and pyramid height alike.
Somehow you now escape the heel
belonged to my peer and continue
onward. So I will lend you favor.

I reap of you your given grace,
your desire to know of nature
who does not build but bows
to its counterpart; I provide
eternal sleep, journey reborn,
a voice who echoes all valleys:
For you I provide a bit of soul.


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