solemn whores waxing
heights of stricken wonder
where the sun finds a stone disc
the eclipse of green arms
that fall against one another
engines puffing in the warp of time
standing in an empty office
with the ripped off sky
contemplating the glare of the window
and its mirages
watching the quiet seed
drown in the hum
and the bronze lips falter
if December would come on an ax blade
if the realm was a filter
still I would chug from the echo's thorn
and crouch to be born.
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