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My pendulous conscience
traipses over
rock, paper, scissors,
games of chance
involving stick-figured
ironies, and shadow puppet
makers. Scribbled onyx
and blue bleed through
paper tangents that
separate as I
rib-cage my winged
heart.
My carpeted tree
thins as its anaemic roots
thirst for bodies, which
blanket the earth,
with their jutting
dirt bellies.
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