Mould

End of the queue
and start of the process.
Threading eye of needle,
delicate contortion of self,
steel embraces shoulder.
Forced myself through it:
square block into circle;
all to find a home
and throw myself into it.

The wave breaks the shore,
the man emulates the wave.
Wave breaks shore into grain;
man breaks back into spirits.
If it fails, we’ll just queue again.

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