There are no metaphors on this field:
The plasticine grass simply is, res ipsa loquitur.
This small victory of yard,
this pain, these contorted limbs,
Each is the thing itself.
The fight is fruitless, the decisions have no impact
beyond the spectacle.
It is. It happens.
It is not. It fades.
Nothing is left.
04 February 2015
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