the dying game.

on By 
with summons,
I sit alone; I was tired of my penetralium
and id frozen in aureoled chokes,
harassing me to the shadows; 

each eye abstract, to the phantom 
of stone; I snipped my garden bones
of the rose-beds, felt the hidden 
moon into the thorns, a baby’s opus,
the dying game.

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11 Comments

  3. Pingback: the dying game. – Lily M Snow
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