my heart was a brass bell:


frozen,
staid,
caught between two
hungers,

like my waft between a hell

I could dream of

or a hell stitched in
spine.

I would pluck at my 

backbone,

and draw pictures of the

sound.

a dischordant euphony

that produced an eery shock

of light to remind me 

I contain some very black

nights.

“sarcophagus”

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