"eye of the beholder"
the glass tiles, iron-work, a lattice of fireflies
imagination spun still-frame, animations in violent,
desolate dreams. unfolding in cinematic precision,
you pressed lust into a sharp paper crane. stabbed.
blood, a crescent rose. the vines and crossbars
cracked. each frame, a mirror of a jaundiced
moon, sick. the windows wide, dark beyond. violet
wildflowers in a coal pail. icy crossbars, pressed
to the face. each streak in the night sky, shattered
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