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I am a ghost in a prism

I am a ghost in a prism; a stigmatist contemplating the transmutability of trauma.    
My bones wax and weave into a yawning smog, where the gravity of shame keeps    
me in pseudocoma. Naked, eroding; harnessing the frequency of shadow to    
amalgamate blood to honey.          
         
A twilight humbling approaches, my nerves peel to expose the soil of arachnid panic.    
I remain altered, like some sort of feral child on the periphery of it all, dancing to  
the deranged rhythms of grief, and the romantic litany of an arsonist's prayer.  
Quietus
Author's Note
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