The sludge between my toes,
as this tropical paradise grows
more festering and less lucid;
with calm shores and bright, sunny skies.

Now the dim.
The wattage cut.

I’ve feces in the sand,
between my toes,
where acne grows and
habitual filings of tax records
shadow out the sun.

No more moon, either.

Just a keeping to the cruft.
An incineration of silent nights.

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