Blood runs free
Through the rooted tips
Of a breathing flea
Like tearing fingers,
A loving moth
Slices the cloth
Of a crawling sloth
Like folly bees
Rain sorrowful seas
Being them holy
Being them moldy
They sink
They clink
They blink
They think
Graciously, as if they were crows,
The shells fall like tainted leaves
Torn open from rocky blows
Down to oily seas of mud.
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