for the crimson misses under silver maple sits,
wonder matchbooks cleanly ripped,
“who lit a fuse to your lips?”
so leave your marks where you think i’d need them most,
and tremble like you’ve taken a liking to this ghost.
masked in molded plastic keep a smile carefully hid,
a wavering voice from teenage lips,
“i think we are the last ones left.”
in this criminal’s manor, its electric candles lit,
lift the wounded to their drinks,
and watch four-legged creatures swing.
illuminant and balanced with,
the fatal face as manuscript
a visionary placed into each socket,
stuffed with cork and glue.
my drawn pupils inked in place,
in peppered sight and speckled haze,
so hungry but without a trace of hunters.
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