this death will be the life of me

patches in the sky

we used to call them clouds

before the bombs went off

and canopied us in a toxic shell;

the artist swapped his brush

for a brick

and threw it in tantrum

from a distance

at some cheesy idyllic canvas

and despite our decaying teeth falling out

with clumps of hair and skin

you slipped out of your negligee

a li...

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