flaccid, fictional and all so much the same.
If---no---when----fine
I waited in the soil(my soul) for your corrugated wisdom...but you left it in some alley, behind the taxidermists place.
I can’t help but wonder what I’d looked like stuffed over your mantle
Or under your mantle
Soft woolen murmurs as we walk down that alley
Just my battered boots,a paper napkin soul, and some goddamned God I have yet to meet.
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