Paper doll
he is light
skin holds a
yellow
tinge, texture
designed
by wasps, a rhythmic
rise
and fall
hurried slurried
respiratory
almonds grind
aspirated
madness... one breath
after the
other
‘til the last.
he is nothing
in his feeble frame
state of being
he found his zen
like that of
an amber waxen
paper doll he
lays lite in these arms
contemplating, yet ponders
crinkles on a beach
the afternoon sun
dries away a life
in constituent form blows
across the sands.
WDF
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