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Remnants of them collect,
dust shards on spider webs,
Little words, face crinkles, depthless iris planes.
What ghosts wrap their
mystic kisses in my fate?
I hate these little deaths,
regress into the lesser being,
feral child. Dagger eyes
alone are sharp
‘midst shreds of ruined grace.
I covered her face
with funeral flowers
that followed the sun.
The little ghosts tagged after.
