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In Temporal Snafus

for late Agha Shahid Ali

Now is the time to flow out of my own river into the sea,
to either assimilate myself with others or vanish like vapour.

The madness of art all night…I'm running out of time.
The sun of sanity will be up to beat down on me sooner.

Poetry is the air I'll be breathing to live on even after death.
The worst of the bargain but I've got only myself to blame.

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Sunday, July 17, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poet
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