poem

dusts which ornate the pent-up breaths and discarded affections, softly powdering the old heart, layer by layer, through time. they’ll stay until they turn to gray cakes in this locked-up room. dirt too precious to give up.

and..

light that shines through the uncleaned square windows. grilled, glassed and strained, it stains the floor nonetheless. it stains the floor  a stain that wipes out in darkness.

LIES.

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