Poem

Through their blank eyes
they speak their dead words
as if they are them. They
caress their means of existence
as an exhibition of ritualistic rounds,
with their spittle dried around
the edges of their mouths
giving way for the darkness
to feed among each closing
and opening of their haunted
caverns; they truly believe they
are among the structure of it all.
And exactly as they are, we see.

-M. Taggart

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