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Mother
our narrow mirrors
clang and tremble
as we topple.
tongues hiss with the volume of 1001 madmen,
eyes discarded to howl unbiased at the images
untiring
and the expectations supreme.
the circle of judgment is upon us.
i have disappointed you again
wedding and aiming incorrectly as my bones twist
under the weight of a city of cement wolves'
hunger and my rent.
we as fools puddle
in scarlet waters of things we say instead,
as Eskimos; always needing a thousand words for
snow,
although we voice none.
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