Is It Poetry
Death-It Is More
Death-it is more;
than it's circle of teeth.
Pulling it's neck from it's socket.
Red pricks of light, dripping form.
Blooms under dark moss gathers more.
Moon bequeathed cold and blue.
Dropps from lost pink and stained white cloth.
Hands under the head too drink and off purple,
black, washed lips -death it is patient and more.
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