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The Misfortunate Fate of a Boy
He’ll follow the bread crumbs
From her apple pie heart and
Lick his fingers, yet still starve
Thus know hunger for always
Woods shall close in, raking and tearing
Blood on the branches, gore on the bark
White-rimmed eyes and ivory oval jaw
Unblinking, un-creased brow faced alight
A red, red stench and
Lolita’s cinnamon syrup
Which was the windchime that sang
The sirens in the rubbled twilight
A lust like sticky honey rolls that
Renders all stomach-ached and
A love that sprang up a trackless forest
In which only to die of thirst
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