We are old things with dusty
Ideas dressed as old wounds.
We are essential underclass.

We did  not erupt to go away.
Our old bones crunch below
In cellular jail of slave island.

We are of odd things in even.
We live in a musty staircase.
Our dust is spirit of old idea.

Odd things are of old bodies.
They are odd shapes in size.
Their dust dances a skylight.

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