On Her Hand It Was Written

Strip yourself naked – it was written on mother’s hand,
To the orchestra playing the waltz of death,
Dance your life away on the porcelain floor,
Let the bloodshed plant itself in your hollow bones
And rise from the fissures a dead child shall
With a redefining posture to the grapefruit moon,
Mirth tied down his spine,
Never again to be discovered, once more.

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