Haecceity

Of seemingly arcane haecceity
in whose minute numbers I did not linger.
My seemingly recurring ambiguity
which I could no longer hinder.
And all the pointing fingers which kept me up at night
and the cardboard labels of block tiles which I hoped to doubt.
The paper thin cinder block which blocked out the sun,
clutching to empty sheets and sleeping with a gun.
Intravenous intervenience seeped in from the shadows,
coping with the pondering of my own genus.
But when I stepped outside and soaked within,
I felt the drought which would begin.

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