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Jim Morrison Blues

Ah, I see the clay
from which your feet were made
has finally engulfed
the rest of your body.

No longer imperfect,
you're an utter fucking wreck
advertising your failure
to every passerby.

And oh, God,
what I would give
to be cold enough
to feel smug about this—
or even apathetic—
anything but this dreadful empathy
teaching me with agony how close I really came
I was always made of soil, after all.

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