Slink away when it's time, go quietly, take your leave with the dignity rarely afforded you till then by her demands pressures and expectations; you're free, the wailing is not for you. No longer need pretences -don't gotta be a whiskey priest no mo’- nothing to lose now, no more hold to bend you to her will; sweet irony of a cruel mistress -dominant to the last- her final act a Pyrrhic victory. Would you rather she kept you chained? Her play thing, do her dirty work for treats; gets you salivating at the ring of a bell even when you well know nothing is coming. Maybe you do, nothing wrong with that, the treats are worthy; just a shame how hard her whip cracks. Got a touch of the Stockholm you do; suppose we all do, maybe even she's got a touch of the Lima … sometimes … who knows. I always want to be part of her, life; bury me next to a tree -outdoors is nice- scoleciphobia be damned then, disconcertion is not for me. Well, I say me but of course I'm no longer I when I slink away, but you get my drift (just a thought, why the angst over such an infinitesimal cosmic shift?). Stand by me then and look around, how far out will you see? How far out do you see now? Curious how we always see but don't often look. When did you last push your vision to probe the distance? Squint if you must, use your hands to block the sun. Now close them and listen, or smell or feel or even taste; strain them all, they won’t break. There is no pleasure in the distance, just rocks and clouds and trees and flowers, but in the perception -the joy of the senses- o my dear, that is your soul.
How far out do you see now?
It will be less then
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