When I hunch forward, squinting into the future
I feel the violent tug of yesterday
Attempting to detain me.
Ahead are illusions
Whose faces are distorted by distance.
While trying to divine their nature
I stumble, confused.
When I breathe through my flaring nostrils
The air is sweet with paper whites.
There is incarnation in this moment
Yet often I have poked
In the miscellany of history
Or the delusional hope
Of shimmering crowns.
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