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Escape

Skin, like scratches

condense into sickening winter,

like the little water drops thrown out of dense space

breaking webbed Siberian glasses

as it rains tombstones of ice.

There's a city you return to

in violent strides. To find how much porcelain weighs

in cheap bazaars selling contraband.

There you absolve fallen strings.

And the music they share each December

like a ritual. The haunting tune and it's jilted shape.

These are words of deliverance.

To each it's own gig. To each it's own shock.

To each it's own madness from where it once thought to be saved. To dream's sick recovery.

To each it's own escape.

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