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a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness

Horizons

Shadows stretch out when 
it’s time to go home. The sun
punches the clock and ebbs to
somewhere people check their
email incessantly. It is warmer
there, and they haven’t read
the obituaries of those who’ve 
fallen asleep. Their lunch rests
in a conglomerate in their 
bellies, potential energy melted
and used to keep them upright.
Farther below their horizon
a man puts on his boots one
at a time and prays for daylight
with coffee too hot to drink.

What is Truth?

An Amputation of Materialism