not the fortunate ones

such as the Mary

who laid me down in the long grass

using the only power

she’d ever known

to keep this young boy of 13

caught & tied to her throne

the Mary I’d travelled thousands to see

caught by the booze

trapped in her thirst for life

too tired tied to meet the real me

not the ones in the autobiographies

clogging up the bookstore shelf

meeting strangers in the park

chance encounter at the right party

who helped them create their destinies

extending open hands to deliver them

from their inherent misery

we are not the fortunate ones

for us is the sifting of the mud

maybe one nugget hoping to find

living lives dredging something

we can live by

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