Only a fraction or less distinct,
from the ones still unsure
of their past, present and future
and roaming about the wilds
Wondering what things,
unbeknownst to me,
went into bringing me
to this precise moment
not a minute more
not a second less
Where I sit
on this Friday morning,
the 24th day of February
of the 23rd year of this century
Eons of errors
trivia of trials
in the name of evolution,
Lightest of lessons registered
on some spiral of the nucleic acid
Buried in the curves and crevices
amid many folds of the beige
bulging between my ears
that makes me, me
so ordinary yet so unique
Stripped of the surface,
all the skin of thought and prejudice,
you couldn't tell me apart
from the billions just like me
Yet here I am
Perhaps the one and only,
pondering over this anomaly
writing a poem about it
Of all days, of all places,
of all times, of all else
On a Friday morning
just like any
From inside of my grave
buried between my ears
where I have been lying
for years of being un-me
waiting to live
waiting to live
even if it were only
for the sake poetry
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