By Paul Swaine

Old clogged boots, one man left standing near,
Two ragged tools, sordid laced, backward fire.
No treasure made, hidden maw worships fear,
I begin to drag, marrowed-claw in mire.

1-45, Cesarean and dire,
Knew you once, fooled me twice, stark reminder.
Severed veins tied, a husk of one’s gyre,
Churned Orange, Rotten Pink, lay beside her.

Tired eyes, broken face, engrailed decider.
With Summer’s dew, an open wound, charming romance;
In scent, whittled prowess, fragile farrier.
If I knew sooner, to prove one more chance.
The crescent open hole asks for its feeding.

Not one, not two, the husk left me reeling.
1-48, I took my leaving.


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