Untitled Poem I
Little feet prance
On a hardwood floor
To music unheard,
Yet in the minds
Of insane poets
And rotting corpses.
The flesh speaks
And whispers
Words of false wisdom,
And remains within
The ornate tombs
Of murderers,
Where the mind
Still endlessly whirs.
Keep the coffin
Closed and sealed,
Or suffer a
Bittersweet ending,
My little one.
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