No Cure
P Patti Masterman
0
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We are the leaden statues,
Who creak the world with comings and goings.
Fate lies ponderous beneath our feet,
Our will of basalt, grip of iron.
Our pasts rise high, like a mountain range
That obscures well the clouded future;
They say we're divine, the offspring of gods-
Or else a rust, on worn-out sutures.
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