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Playing checkers
with one’s thoughts,
redeem, redeem,
cry — scream with muted, starving stares
at the walls in people’s eyes.
They think they have tasted heaven
in their appetites,
growling at the bursts of longing
that dares to lick their dessert.
Somewhere in the pitch black
terror of nakedness,
tomorrow becomes a chalice
served by wings
instead of hands.
And dawn
is born in a wretched bath,
cleansing with a bluntness
of a piercing
kaleidoscope
quivering with veracity.
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