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To Shed
I envy he who ne’er did know
the weight of self on shoulders worn—
though has he no shoulders of which to speak
A mod magician of the dirt
A fluid body not-quite-fond
of ancient skins may leave them lucent
Discarding remnants at free will
Envy I how the friend in green—
though friends I know we ne’er will be—
eludes the coat of vintage years
Non-secular is rebirth, I’m told,
but for that babe who ne’er must hold the
entity with which he came
Be I naive to envy he
who admiration ne’er has gained?
A wistful fool I am indeed
Still covet I the fortune of the fiend
who has escaped the burdened creed
that wicked Nature set in stone
for those whose skins cling to the bone
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