obtuse corners tell their stories. in seldom bandages.
shallow voices wear their truth. in tangled strings.time is only a ghost. a paper blade selling old wounds.
flesh is only a series of stones. falling from torn pockets.
a perilous ascent. bargaining with knotted ropes.
the world is full of meandering forests. and melting candy houses.
we are alone on our path.
with our heavy picnic baskets.
knocking on doors.
wondering who will answer.
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