By: Jui Apte


Slowly I turn,

spinning on wheels, round and round

but my back bone shatters like porcelain plates.


Whispering secrets through tight lips

brittle hairs that rise and fall

and sunken eyes which crave goodness.


Moons that gently circle,

around music that impatiently grows

things appear from dark, wicked little holes.


Peaking through the cracks

of red lips that smell of roses

and heavy clouds, of gentle kisses.


Rising and falling,

as children are born

while dead men hum on matchins made of stone.


Standing tall but my backbone is breaking

collapsing and dying

in a colorless slumber in which i am sleeping.

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