Insecticide #20

When she has shattered my life
and turned all the pages to ash;
still she comes with her sickle,

She is the voice
that I will purge,
her figure and her form,
I will neglect

Until the strands of time
enwrap her. Until
my mouth devour her.

And the digestion of a thousand days’ time,
will diagnose me something awful;

No cure,
this tear,
puncture,

And I wail where she can’t see me any longer,
I have buried her body in a textual transmission.

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