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Synthesis
January 23, 2011
In synthetic hearts the flies leave
the larva to eat its way out the hole.
Don’t worry, Love; for tears are what we crave and
the difference is the blood we infect with knives.
To how much I love you
IS the infected wound.
Kiss poison, and wrap me around the whole like the black tourniquet.
Tell me if it stings, tell me if you weep;
ill be there in one blink to catch
them in the stained glass.
© Yisrawayl G., Philadelphia, PA
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