The Anteater

Oh, how Kundera was right, the unbearable
lightness of being bears down on one like
a granite feather.

Lay me down with your warring waste.
I would purify you.

Knock me out with his demanding fist.
I would spare you.

Burden my ebbing youth with fallen heros.
I would set you free.

Upon daylight’s dais, idle hands and able
bodies know neither ballast nor blood.

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