anastrophe II

or evanescence 4071

looks at me a placid reverie and just grins this nonsense-I ●● "no longer, no repentance– much flourish, many flames– you are but a wound, a drafty, ruined plan" ●● rushing back my failures to that plastic mirror turning on the water and letting the faucet prey upon my body– frail, stretchy, vile– the shower drop by drop embezzles my dirt, washing away the corners I crisscrossed replete with so many torments– ●● overlook from there I that Temple of facing whatever– my bathroom, that mirror and miss the days I was reputed to be fragmented by, or filled in drops after drops of trash behind trash and chaos inside layers of misappropriations blurring the line...


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