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Cool cold froth
slides across their pages
they whirl their congratulatory comments
like pucks across ice crystal cut sharp and precise
waiting for return compliments
basting their words with oily accomplishment
slick and to strict recipe
baking like fat turkeys
mild and appetites easily
How does a person come to this?
They think of words and throw them
to the wolves like sticks
Wolves will take their words
strip all bones ragged of stories
and then silently,
without a backward glance
“Their pooled emotions wouldn’t fill a teaspoon.”
“They sicken of the calm who know the storm.”
“That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone:
Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.”
"What Fresh Hell is This?"
"Purgatory is a Poem"/ LadyLabyrinth
Copyright © Lady Labyrinth | Year Posted 2019
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