Somewhere, I have a platonic consanguinity
that presses against my body with
the expectation and legacy
of an alabaster ancestor

It is trapped in a bust, symbolically
missing its trunk, its legs and its means
for traveling forward
On a pedestal with a stationary curse

The harder I try to engage it
the more resistant it seems to float, restless
stirred by the gust forced through
the sieve of my conscience

I know and understand how I should
attack, retreat, retreat, repeat
This is a straight strategy for the best result but
failure leaps up as desperation creeps up
in my voice

Genealogy has provided no proven course
of action to temper this transparent confusion
The tree's branches bend, snap
from all the illogical insinuation
borne
born?

A pedestal is just a ledge
perched precariously above begging
Asking is continuing the tradition of
admitting a state of without
Careful of your tender parts,
the question is cold against
the euthermic platonic.

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