Worlds Within Worlds
The shag splinters the skin beneath the arch of nothing there
Fibers so tiny drenched in the ink written out in despair
The smell of stains way beneath never escapes the vine
The colors blend so differently ending to be drenched in wine
Particled of dust haphazardly laid down to never arise
Circling above disaster seeking revenge of The Lord of Flies
bmdavey@02/23/21
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