Three shots of whiskey. Apple grape juice. With this concoction, I will channel the spirit of Emmett J. Wispy.
Trail tunnel lopsided sunrise
Gleams on the slicked coats
Of disease with dented teeth.
An abyss the size of a nickel
Where Sun tangles branches of voice
Escapes a cutting shriek.
Distant cratered orb
Creams on an amorphous black thing
Sharpening its leaves:
A light ring over horror
Which God gave reprieve;
Does not look to let alone;
Does not look to let be.
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