a train was hiding in my dreams
right beneath the surface
in the wrinkles of a
detective story
i was carrying
in my pocket
unaware
with dissonant and brutal chords
from a very unhappy viola
it is a cold day in a city
i do not know well
and hiding stories here
is treason punishable by
the most heinous act imaginable:
death by being erased
from the memory of
the living
i am still listening to those
dissonant chords and
i am melting
melting
melt
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