Solitude Overture

 

 

Down a whiskey alley,

where electric wire guts

wave and spark in the dark.

 

Stolen subway shoes

pass the white gazebo

where a blossoming field

of new murderers are nurtured.

 

Soon, they will be ready.

 

Murders in dark quiet places,

falling flesh of the newly dead.

Falling into aphotic folding spaces.

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