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Six times the angels screamed,

The crows cawed,

And I cried my way out of a nightmares rage,

With blood blistered eyes,

Scratched raw from the dreams.

Five times the words came out,

Splitting into fragments,

Unto deaf-mute ears.

This silence too much,

Too late,

With this witch that sits on my shoulder.

Four times I saw myself

From angles supplied by warped mirrors

That are placed about the room,

Providing ample words to bury you with.

Scar you with.

Three times I woke to scratch the wounds

In easy tender rips.

Gouges wept for my love in separation.


This night of deprivation.

Two times I told myself,

The light was near.

The end was bright with hope.

Don’t wake.

Don’t weep for the smoke of illusions.

One time then,

The bed did break.

I say,

The bed is broken from the weight.

I am broken from the weight.

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