White Stains

I’m too close.

I can’t close it.

The celestial dressing gown grows,

shoots looks of wisdom down on me.

My engine drums against my outstretched ribs;

bones pound at an angle,

they sharpen at the tongue of: harp strings;

their vibrations rip at my throat.

I can’t stop.

I can hear a mantra:

“Shine, you dark, dark skeleton.

Shine, you dark, dark star.”

My shapeless voice quivers and leaves

moonlight stains on the ears of flower buds.

 

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