I am a singular trail of derailed tendencies
And a pile of angst that smells of fright...
Or maybe figs sometime next summer
But I'm not certain where that'd be
Since I have lost my guilded compass
While running backwards through your leaves.
I am the letter to tear open and then crease hard in heavy hands,
My lines all smudged with inks of anger
And all my sentences misread.
I am my past in crazed bruised velvet
To wrap around my shoulder blades
And carve my time to bleed my faith
Until my borders crack with present and all my ruins melt away.















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