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this spin on trees

These little pills,
this spin on trees,
is there no end
to plastic smiles
on glass figurines?
their bland little intricacies,
fragile exteriors, fill
these spacious cavities.
poison and leaves,
this strange amalgamation,
it takes form, creeping in
like a slow chemical,
but it proves itself worthy
as it dies on the lips
of the confined and holy.





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