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May 2014
Prophets in suits spell your name across the rails

in black-and-white pictures, hung up like wet laundry

Afraid of drying, the words in your last breath climb

towards the approaching train lights.

At sunrise, I hurry to pick up the vowels, but they bite my hands,

cursing me for hoping you’ll burn

slowly, for attempting to steal your voice

so you wouldn’t die screaming
Last Arpeggios
Written by
Last Arpeggios
489
   Margaryta
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