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by David Ackley



 

The colors of the night

are malignite and char

are dead mothers

 

they lick the cellar floor for emphasis

 

preparing to speak dead tongues

 

the colors bind together impenitent

 

a priest's fingers dipped in ash

 

a cack-cack of crow

 

the colors howl for pity

 

even as they tear out your eyes

 

they bleed tranquility

 

under the dirt laden roof

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