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I Have a Voice

I am a lake without a choice.
Matter thrown inside sinks out of sight and mind,
lost in the reservoir– decomposses.
Becoming part of the waters, blending with foreign archaic sediment.

But waters recede,
Sediment takes form.

I see clearly the solid refuse.
I am not a lake, I have a voice,
and sound waves distort reflections of you.

I have mass.

Enough to throw down like a hammer and shatter offshore rubble.
Fossils remain like battle scars that tattoo my solid, solid form.

I am not a lake, my body another kind.
I am a warrior clad in titanium, echoing cries that insist victory.
Ablaze with sun that dries spittle from existence.

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What’s a Spoon

What’s a spoon,

What’s a prune,

What’s a moon,

What’s a loon,

When is noon,

Where is my prune,

What’s a spoon.