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Tommy Gun

By
I lay back and let vines cover me,
chrome in the revealing moonlight.
Grasping arms pull me in and I recede into darkness,
smelling of green and ground.
The 100-foot-faces look down on me,
I need them like I need water in my lungs.
Attempting to repay debts to myself, I stay.
It’d be hard to find something in my body that works harder than my heart
as it waits for my skeleton to catch up.
I’m concentrating on falling apart and this is too close of a call.
The vines tighten and my lips loosen as those overused lies spill out.





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