This is the year where a month leaps into another
like a race that starts and loops into the same point
this is the year when a runner decided to join the queue
of those who hung their shoes for lack of good ground
this is the year when the text became the word,
the word became the tool that cut the poet's fingers first, then head
this is the year when the influence comes from outside
but the light finds its way from between the cracks
this is year when you reap potatoes in winter but take for granted
the harsh graze that remains after the carcasses stain earth
this is the year jealousy tastes like whiskey dunked
in a piece of cake, to add value, sophistication
this is the year of balance, learning to walk when
your leg only allows you a stretch of limping on crutches
this is the year where a month leaps into the calendar,
like a drop of water rippling then becoming the sea.
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