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 angelica, falling.
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