Ego

Grady McMurtry

4 December 1941

I, Star, swing out the perihelions of my round.

A million streaming tendrils coruscate and bound

Into the sky. They would escape, but no. I hold

Them yet more firmly, crush them, back into the fold

They slump with laggard bodies, yet their writhing souls

Strain out. White, fear lapped eyes are rolled in knotted boles

Away. Ha. Come to me my little ones, I play.

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