We the people, living against this blessed earth,
scraping our sustenance over thine skin. Crawling.
Can you hear us? This withering over crust,
above the colliding plates, just under the atmosphere.
Who shall name us after the books are burned?
Then what books shall carry our names? I don’t trust
the tides to remember Clay Blancett and I don't trust you.
I trust myself to one day break the face of the one true liar.
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