Her nails,
dug in flesh;
wounds,
of the obsessed.

And the seven hills,
gather in my breath
as I continue
on the path of death’s
descension.

I have not loved
like the quagmire,
a programmable sword
thrust into her stone;

Its beauty is in the intellect;
and there’s a phosphorescent
stalemate
sitting at the front door
of the theater.

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