The Death Throes of Marionettes

The Death Throes of Marionettes

Books of sand written by a mathematician with an abacus made from broken hands,
watering broken plants that look away from the waning light of the sun scissored into a wavering, wilted strand inside of a styrofoam box inside of a rock that recoils and cracks whenever it’s touched and all blooming flowers renounced their blossoms and crawled back down into the dust, their innocence hacked away by the axe handles of love, a sunset that forever fell filled with dead stars scrawled in paint that never dries captive in a canvas carved out of the sky by dull, rusty, heartbroken knives spitting hot blood at your eyes but only concealing the lens’ of the glasses art wears when it’s blind, the moment before it quivers, withers and silently 
dies.

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