The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Larceny

Who is this evolutator
that pounds my chest to inhale
knowing the inevitability of expiring
Is there art in my tachypnea?  
The rattle 
of employing dualities
to encompass realities
succumbing to gravities
ending in a thud
whose reverberations wail in chorus
decry physicalities and 
long for the caesura of salted spheres,
for to police such larceny
would be the greater jest.
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