My severed third hand is buried under ground
Just below the line of penetrable light and
Just above the very peaks of hell itself.
It was the limb that no one needs but
Always needs, a constellation of connections
From mind to soul and soul to hand;
Without it I am grabbing at air with
Every whipped horse nerve running an
Endless derby of fear and confusion.
The great big cup in the sky is cheap,
Falling apart from lack of purpose.
The god of direction has given up and
If there's no north, there's no moving on.
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