Smoak/Smoak (Poem)

Here’s a quick poem:

It covers and scores it, my skin is.
The heat on my flesh faking steam now.
The cold in the room is unreal, how?
The blue on my skin echoes falseness.
All black and done up in a moment,
Those fingers that pull up the seedlings,
The crawlies are marching on feelings,
All choking and burnt, no atonement.
Our breath as inklings of herbicide,
Our eyes as dark as the downpull.
Electrical eyesight blown up wide,
We creep to our homes as the awful.

 

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Smoak/Smoak (Poem)

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