Swan Song

Concentric icicles

pierce the violet mist. The tar.

The tinsels and ribbons strangle

the donkeys

Two aphonous needles are moaning their

cataclysm.

It’s cold. Way too cold. I’m sweating;

I’m sweating, but I am not drowning, for

the epitaph takes the place of the gag

The cloth dampens, but the mercury

Of its fabric won’t melt

tonight

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