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Act I – 05:22

Densely multitracked, the vocals are lost in a forest of pines.

Scales, the bark, the tree,

the scales fall from the arrangement of night.

I walk and breath is pace reversed.

Chiffon the fabric of memory.

When the wild wolves stalk, the heart is its own percussion.

The snow sets – veils my scream under auto tune.

Solace in spasms. I am still and peel back the nail of you.


The sound of your palms clapping – or was it the it your fingers strumming.


I want your skin to match the temperature of this dying.

This winter is not so bad. The words wish to be read slow.

Silence wishes to be sung aloud.

Porcelain the sclera ceramic it cracks.

No one is to blame.

The song is a ghost, rubs its fur on the pines.

In the morning the snow is white and glass and blood.

The wolves, they sleep.




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