It feels as though I am a small, Twite-like bird
Caught inside a smooth glass ball spinning
Towards the foamy lip loom of the sea;
I am going to die and I can do nothing about it. The cliff face
Behind me points its stygian shadows
At me and laughs; It is the swarm of gannets,
They flap their wings like clapping hands.
I cannot cope with mortality; it is the fear,
Fear of losing all that which was never actually mine.
A bone-basket full of other picker's berries.
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