i have been allergic to silver since the first grade.
should a lock fall to the floor i do not hesitate to seize obediently
she alone hears wind chimes; she alone construed the new york vigor as youth
but there is no youth to be had. not for an inamorata of a perfect stranger whose bountiful flora precedes memory
she has plucked his fruit
she has fed it to the children and the vapor is hot on their breath; they have chewed away the pulp
their smoke fills the chamber with syrup, a lachrymose miasma who ripens her essence so quickly as to expedite her decay
alack, she sees the hazy curtain in her drunken state yet it will not suffice!
forty years she has suffered the slow bleed
voices into lungs
lights into hearts as her alveoli freeze diligently
they welcome the intonations with resolve tantamount to her hands' abstinenence
so she repeats her mantra and the paint is preserved

another incarnation
freedom remains elusive