POEM 96: THIS IS NOT A POEM

Sometimes I love to see myself 
as a gold stuck in the depth 
of its past, 
though dug up, refined and glittering.

I wear it like smiles
on the contours of my heart.

I wear it like hairs 
on the crown of my head.

I stagger as I walk
Cos I'm drunk in anticipation
of what it holds, my future.

I don't forget from whence I came.
This is not a poem.







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