Churning the mutinous pot
Under quarentine,
Though never forgot.
Locked in this body
Still serving the wicked that
Always seem to infect;
Withered.
Velvet.
Hanging.
Skin dripping off to syrup-
I find them wretched, when supper's done,
Lungs bubbled up.
They all died, abruptly,
And without cause.
But I knew what made them ill;
And I know still.
The carpenters came in to
Stretch their skin
To lamps and curtains
-Winter hats for the rest of the pack.
Their bones were cut down
Chisled into candle holders
-Ivory doll molds.
Never a thought where to put the hearts
So I served them,
Bloody and cold.
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