A shiver creeps across the spine

As if lifeless hands were playing it like a grand piano.

Words are spoken in the hushed tone of a eulogy

Dripping off of chapped lips like a venom-spitting snake.

White-gloved hands covered in old copper-toned stains

Delicately carve into the pumpkin, no longer a carriage,

Because time has run out

And the illusion dissipates before the demoralized marble headboard.

The gloved hands slither in the open wound

And grasp onto stitches which bind everything together,

Twisting and turning as if opening a safe.

Plucking the stitches out thread, by thread, by thread

In the same way one would pluck daisies from their stems;

Stealing from its nurturing mother,

Filling its lungs with bodies of water.

The daisies are only returned,


When they are no longer of any use to the plunderers

And are reclaimed in a compacting hug of Gaia's sorrow.


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