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Ode to Battle Wounds

Tepid bath water is a plague,
Goosebumps are an epidemic
and my body holds your aura like disease.
I must observe it with eyes of caution,
Buoyant.

“Will these faint prints disappear
Or may I fashion them again –
Fingernails, where yours once rested,
fracturing the shell of my skin.
Touch can only cure me,
Tangible.”

The day (Tuesday?) reeks of task,
And the thoughts taste metallic.
There is a circus in town I hide among,
until elephants break down your door
and lift me to your window,
Operative.




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