Midnight Moth
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poem is not about anybody at the soup
At the center of a soggy bar.
She wore a polka dot smile.
A tornado of graceful magnificence.
Like a spray of funeral flowers
Against a leather studded sty.
Inside my head, I drunkenly prayed.
"Angel flee into yesterday-immediately.
Before we dip you in our bile and drink.
Don't become like the rest of us!"
She won't listen (they never do).
She'll become Suzy shot glass.
Sporting a smoker's cough.
Spit out -split in half.
A powdery little midnight moth.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2016
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