there are souls who scream all night in their rooms holding covers up, blinking at a dark space before them empty, unblessed. there are times that defy the word stop. the end moves from the center to the skin a creeping constant no event, no goal. our skins dry flaking dirt like the dark surface of a lemon tree. dust becomes the clothing and center of each as the worms carve tunnels in the wood, patterns to follow with the tips of our fingers smoothing, silencing like a touch to the lip. you hang by that fine thread a slim black spider wanting release the slam toward dirt is not always final. there are recriminating blasts, silences where voices are needed. the thread will last if you let it, the dirt will stay soft.
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Warren Wedin firstname.lastname@example.org