Lumberjack–a poem (from the archives)

He sits at a desk with a dull hatchet,

stripping ego from the tree of his words,

trying to rid himself of himself,

to celebrate what’s real, rather than the absurd.

He swings and he whacks,

and the blade flatly cracks,

as it knocks away pieces of pride,

and he smiles and he slows,

as he suddenly knows

how much more room there is inside.

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