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The Handprint

The handprint is invisible, hanging by a thread
blue purple faded to yellow-green
gone away forever, but
only from the eyes,
Never from the soul
hidden in the cobwebs and the
dark corners of the kitchen where light never reaches
scratched in dirt by the chicken coup and traced
in the dust on the neglected grand-piano
in the sweet scent of rotten apples beset with worms
under the shade of trees with branches groping the ground
in the handprint in the howls of the wind singing through the window cracks
and the banging of the furnace in the middle of the night
in the shadow of the musket which glistens in the moonlight
and the twitches in the night
hidden in the emptiness of makeup jars
the silence in the halls
the casket in the morgue
and beneath the fake tears, here,
the invisible handprint, hangs by a thread

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