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The Man You Lost



Before.

It was in the ink used to define your name.

A man created to breathe into his own,

to exhale upstream,

to tear down a universe

as he searched

in the intensity of vastness

for a cure;

for proof of life.

To know you will not be alone

when you finally run out of antidotes

for your sarin-laced fear.

Before.

It was a question.

The singular crisis of a plot.

The answer to which irreversibly changed

everyone and everything.

In your gnostic laboratory

you would never be the same.

Before.

Rewriting was tantamount to treason.

Thou shalt not replicate

proclaimed the first commandment.

Sail once.

Stray once.

And the earth beats to only one hymn,

dedicated to the solar disk,

the sweet rays of Aten.

The rays that would fall gently

over your eyes.

And you would watch the ignorant –

the collectors of women and gods –

intoxicated in their temples,

prostrating to the night.

Before.

If you could only return,

if you could only be

the man you were before.

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