waving hair, a cyclone shell, slowly growing one gnarly tail
ten years later, down to waist. plotting a surprise. take haste
deforested, skin pavement. A Mohawkian braid of anchors
suspended in golden arches. Ginger bleached yarn revenant
Burning to a cinder as the cigarettes crossfired
next day clean shaven, and carefully admired.
Awe drips from my face in beads of sweat, it's over. Knees beg for the ground, holding my beating heart bullseye for the Sun's silent stroke. "Am I no more?" - Last gratifying inquisition. I die in the high of denying unseen facts. It's all a mirage, all a facade. A third eye abortion, nothing really matters.
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