You are the Prague of my tale.
The paper bag lining
of my muddy cage.
Willow trees of burden
cobblestone for ground,
dawn in the dragon's den
casting mutations for mute.
You murdered my moratorium,
offered apologies to the dead.
Beneath table knee to knee
forged tongue
to my incision-ed skin.
From grave to cradle
you explode like spiders from a sluice.
While the seedling of a poplar
roots dressed in concrete and cigarettes,
bait my tolerance one last time.
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