Something like the gleaming steel doors that wait behind
barbed wire and bared teeth, locked up in the frontal lobe
of half shrouded conviction. Can't hold a candle to it, for
a shadow cast may become a place to hide. Looks just like
the sun and dances like it, too. Spewing volcanic regret-
me-knots, eight out of nine times tying ropes at wrong
distances cinching tight around the neck.
Unknowingly radiant. Urging on these arms in which
you long to lay. Pretending that the warmth inside
has collapsed and gone.
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