#9

I’ve been dead for years, splayed
on the flywheel of uncertain tides/

Banished by the gods to iridescent
indifference, a fuse of failure/

Please sign here, in blood for the
bones of yours alone/

The bruises become wings on which
electrified hopes are dashed/

Oh, the terror of the muses that play
only in the minor key/

The screams are tiny comets that burn
through an uncertain sky/

And dissolve or drown in silence.

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