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Broken Ink

She is cracked and dry
Shards of what
Should be.
Empty air does not live here,
A harsh lit space of nothingness
Where blinding white
Scours reject sides
And spears of broken
Stab the world.

The winds of voices
Flow on past
There is no soil or water
Bound to take in seeds
Soft blown along
To settle lightly,
Root down firm,
For nothing lives
In arid pain.

Tip the broken vessel
On her end
For shame.
Noisome ooze of fecal oil,
A black and teeming fury rage
Seeps out in multiplying foulness,
Bend and break and
Stain the world.

Roiling ugly monstrous
Fingers what
Won't be.
For here the mire is
Sludge where scum is
Taken in and groomed in fear,
The weight of
Burgeoned terror
Draws the dry,
Implodes within.

She is sundered and lost
In hidden
Empty and bound,
Overflowing abandon,
On one side the bright splinters,
One side the cruel ink
That tells bitter tales
Scratched into her eyeballs
Where all she can see
Is how useless she is.


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