She stumbles off, slick, into the moonlight,
licking the strands of time as they come in lurching,
sweeping pulse-waves matching the click of
heels on the wet floors of fate.
A lightening slick shudder of fluttering,
systematic disbelief,
boring into a box,
set high on a shelf of self doubt and discourse,
creep up behind the crows and feel around a bit.
“Great soil here, Boss,”
cry factions of the wise,
wilting under the weary gaze,
somewhat better than a hole in the head.
Secure enough, I’d assume.
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