The Half-Finished Man
The half-finished man, diminished sand, a vanished vanilla land where he had once planned to save the planet; a replenished span of spinning thoughts crammed within the cranium, symmetrical temples, the higher god, the city of his body with red blood cell faces busy streaming through the vein like streets; the hearts market where they create and break white blood coated doctors for reconstruction, police chasing poisons away and sending them to prison walls of a blackened liver, trackened slivers, like a river running silver spring, beyond or beaneath? Deep breath, time to think, at the water fountain where he drinks; where is he going? Slowing time yet he never speaks, He's the half-finished man.... He thinks as the artist pencil sketches a half-life traced without a face.
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