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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