lead paint

tactical. less so than normal
ever so subtle, the noise which has built for eternity, now silent
like a bowling ball falling
down a greased, hot and ready corridor.

is it the milk i drank as a child?
does it mar the soul
and cause this feverish delusion
that makes me breathe further and deeper this cold air?

the angels laugh on their clouds
and are welcome to.
i remained pleasantly engaged
with this book about a pregnant teenager in a coma (sparky!)

and today there is no muse
what plodding words


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