Standing above me tall,
A blushing green atoll;
Craft with its rusty pieces,
Has been the grounds myriad past.
But waist above I am held, I am chained;
Cannot throw my wit, vision – afar,
Cannot I complain?
Has my nurture been in disdain?
Above is my folly, above that my Past.
A condemning wish to Bury, not to Last.
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