somewhere between
my belvedere of yet unopened wounds
a brace of pheasants hanging on a whim.
am less curious now
my fortress stands on mercury and dust.
arc angels come and go, all neatly packed
dead nettles resting weary with the ordinary rank
only three more days
to pass the time and flower like a ball
to roll my eyes somewhere inside
the open jars of flannels
for the cleansing hands of rich and yellow corn.
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Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Online)
- Published: August 11th, 2024 05:14
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
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