the world being round I am somewhat confused
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as to which direction will remove me from my past:
the only legend on which I have to guide myself
is the smoke billowing from the ash of a lifetime set aflame.
New beginnings are better left for explorers and novelists -
the boundaries of my wits are well defined, and
my vapid novel is not fit for consumption
by the sentient (myself, of course, excluded)
among the present company.
I step, right foot first, into the frontier of the unknown,
Can you hear the song?
It bellows in my heart.
(ba da da, da da, da da)
On and on and on,
until the sun sets on my shoulders,
and the ash is no longer warm.